


Freely They Stood and Fell

by AGlassRoseNeverFades



Series: Our Sins [8]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Abigail Hobbs is NOT Alive in This, And its Ultimate Final Conclusion, Dark Will Graham, Don't Act Like You Didn't See This Coming, Final Installment of Our Sins, I'm Not Telling, It's Worth It I Promise, M/M, Manipulation, Obsession, One Side of Our Love Triangle is Going to Fall and Never Get Back Up, The Creepy Obsessive Love Triangle We've Come to Know and Love, The Real Question Here is Which One?, There Will be Exactly ONE (and ONLY ONE) Major Character Death by the End, You Know These Boys Don't Want to Share, You'll Have to Read to Find Out - Freeform, references to cannibalism, sorry - Freeform, you know what that means
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-02-08 10:46:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 35,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1937964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AGlassRoseNeverFades/pseuds/AGlassRoseNeverFades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"Freely they stood who stood, and fell who fell."</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>--Milton, <em>Paradise Lost</em></p><p>In which Will finally understands that in order to win, he will have to adapt, evolve, <em>and become.</em> The question is not whether he will bend, but for whom he will, and whether he can do it without breaking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dinner at Hannibal’s now is a very different affair from what it used to be.

Even before he knew the truth about his…friend, Will had always sensed something unnaturally ostentatious about Hannibal’s flourishes and mannerisms at the dinner table, something decidedly rehearsed. Will used to view it as the quirk of a man and a socialite being (rightfully) proud of his own prowess in the kitchen, and while oddly endearing Will had never really cared for it, strongly preferring their conversations in Hannibal’s office over the performance he found here. He never ate at Hannibal’s very often then.

Now he dines here almost regularly, alone with the man, and with no unwary guests to entertain or amuse himself with, Hannibal puts on noticeably fewer airs. It is still a performance, but one of a different sort now that his precious empath is in on the jokes and secret smiles he likes to indulge in.

Will sips his wine with the same delicate thoughtfulness that Hannibal does, smiles charmingly back, makes jokes of his own, swallows mouthfuls of truly superb cooking made from human flesh.

Fights desperately not to show the growing horror within at how damningly easier it gets every time. He thinks Hannibal can see some of it anyway, but the man only smirks and says nothing about it.

Of course not, why would he? Despite the peeled-away layers Hannibal has allowed Will to see, he still has not given the other man anything substantial to work with, nothing beyond vague hints and innuendos. Will fears that they could go on like this indefinitely, sly flirtations and insinuations with nothing real to ever show for it. He fears even more that they won’t.

He offers to stay and help with dishes or the like more often than not, even on the few and far occasions that Jack is also there as a guest. Will can tell in those moments, the _look_ Jack gives him when Hannibal is in the other room and not there to see, that he thinks far more is going on than simple after-dinner cleanup. They never discuss it, and Will is grateful for that.

He honestly wouldn’t know how to tell the other man that there really is _nothing_ after he leaves. He doesn’t think he could handle the ‘relieved for Will’s sake’ look that Jack might give, or worse the potentially disappointed _‘Clearly you’re not trying hard enough then. Do you want to catch him or not?’_ look that he might see instead. He’s probably being unfair to Jack for that one, but still he feels better for not knowing one way or the other.

Truly, if Will thought actively pursuing that route would be enough to convince Hannibal to reveal his secrets faster, Will would have long since hopped into bed with him already. It’s not that simple with Hannibal Lecter though—nothing ever is.

Oh, the desire is _definitely_ there. He can see it in the long glances that seem to drink him in and strip bare, feel it the hand on his shoulder, his arm, the back of his neck, the side of his _face,_ lingering touches that keep occurring with more frequency and end up lasting far longer than they should every time.

For whatever reason however, Hannibal never takes it beyond that, a single moment in which Will’s breath hitches in his throat and he thinks, _this is it, this is happening,_ with a giddy mixture of dread, anticipation, and excitement. It never happens though, the moment ends and Will is left with a feeling of dizziness and sometimes a faint shake in his knees.

At first, he assumes this is part of Hannibal’s polite veneer, remaining ever the gentleman. It occurs to him gradually that it goes deeper than that, that this is as much a part of his usual pattern as anything else. The Chesapeake Ripper is endlessly patient, after all. Why waste the energy rushing things when it’s far more satisfying to wait and coax your prey into coming to you?

Will intends to make him wait a _very_ long time for that. He doesn’t appreciate these games and won’t give Hannibal the satisfaction of watching him crack again.

“You seem rather distracted this evening, Will.”

Will glances up from the plate he’s drying and flicks his gaze over to the right, somewhere near Hannibal’s jawline as the man rinses. He shrugs and returns his attention to what he’s doing. Even the idea of _talking_ at this point feels exhausting. He wants nothing more than to go home and curl up on his couch with a pile of dogs and a tumbler of scotch.

Hannibal continues to wait patiently as he hands Will the last plate to be dried off. Right. Not answering would be _rude,_ wouldn’t it? “Just wondering how long I have to wait before I get to see all of you,” he says finally, trying not to think too deeply about the double meaning behind his own words.

A rare smile creeps onto the older man’s face. He steps closer, almost too close but not quite crowding Will against the counter behind him. “I suspect about as long as I shall have to wait to see the rest of you,” he answers cryptically.

Was that night in the stable really not enough? What more does he have to do to _prove himself_ to the man? Will doesn’t voice his questions aloud, but he mentally blanches at the realization that Hannibal expects _so, so much more_ than a failed pull of the trigger before he will trust Will enough to reveal himself completely.

He should have known. Hannibal Lecter is a narcissist with a God complex who expects nothing less than the best for himself. He will not be satisfied until he is absolutely certain that Will is too far along the path to turn back from becoming _exactly like him._

Will wonders how he’s supposed to hold himself together in the face of two demons on his shoulders who want to make him into a killer like them. He hasn’t even spoken to Matthew since he got out of BSHCI, but thinking about it now, he can appreciate the differences between each man’s approach. Lecter’s influence is insidious, a cancerous poison trickling into his thoughts like the encephalitis did months ago, sliding under his skin like one of the scalpels Lecter uses to sharpen his pencils, so smoothly he almost can’t feel the cut until it’s already inches deep.

Matthew’s is a blunter, brutalistic force. Much more direct, a chisel and hammer breaking his mind open, ringing loud and sharp in his ears against the temple of his skull. Will never thought he would miss it.

“You are distracted again.” It takes Will a moment to pick up on the undercurrent of danger in Hannibal’s tone, something darker and colder than the smug amusement from earlier. Is it obvious to him then where Will’s thoughts have strayed? Will feels something close to panic seize at his throat and suppresses an instinctive urge to swallow.

“I’m just tired,” he lies. “I think I should head home.”

Were he not staring so closely at the man, he might have missed the brief twitch in Hannibal’s jaw that tells him Hannibal doesn’t really believe him. “Very well,” he says, cool and mannerly, and takes a microscopic step back to allow Will room to depart.

“Have a good evening, Will,” he says. He does not move to walk Will to the door as he normally would.

“Same to you, Doctor,” says Will with a strained smile. It feels as though he is walking a tightrope with no net below him. He sees himself out.

He can’t shake the feeling as he walks to his car that he’s fucked up somehow already. Whatever move Hannibal makes next, Will knows it will be perfectly designed as both a punishment and a test for him, one that could make or break everything he and Jack have been working toward.

*

He hates being right sometimes. Most times, in fact.

He stares down at his bloodied knuckles, his mind strangely as quiet and still as the stream for once. He should get up off the floor. He should move the body. He should do something other than kneel uselessly while blood seeps into his floor and stains the wood.

He hears faint whimpering to his left. That finally stirs a reaction from him.

None of the dogs seem to be hurt when he checks them over. Buster has a slight limp from the ordeal outside, but beyond that he’s fine. Nevertheless, Will is shaking. Never in the dozens of scenarios he’s played out in his head had he ever considered the possibility that something could happen to his dogs. They’re innocent in all this.

They’re also not safe with him anymore.

Will shakes his head to dispel the thought and gets to work. He mops up the blood and moves quickly to sweep up the broken shards of his window before the dogs can cut themselves on the pieces. Then he has to trudge out to the barn in the snow to find plastic sheeting. One sheet to wrap the body in before putting it in the trunk of his car, one to cover the hole in his wall so it can’t snow in his house anymore. He almost wouldn’t even care about that at this point, except that he doesn’t want the dogs to freeze in the house while he’s gone.

Then he drives to Hannibal’s house, lets himself in, presents his “gift” on the dining room table, and waits.

He has his doubts about this being in any way a good idea, but all of those worries fade into the background when Hannibal finally walks in and Will can see the play of emotions across his face. Surprise, cruel hunger, lust, _pride._

He was right. This was a punishment for allowing Hannibal to still have lingering doubts about where Will’s loyalties lay, and a test to see how far he would go to dispel those doubts, to _prove himself_ to Hannibal once and for all.

“I’d say this makes us even now,” says Will, barely recognizing the cool, disinterested but faintly amused voice speaking as his own. “I sent someone to kill you, you sent someone to kill me. _Even steven.”_

Hannibal’s lips twist up into a pleased smile. He is delighted with Will. His chosen companion is finally breaking out of his chrysalis, transforming at last into the terrible beauty he’s envisioned for so long and more.

He immediately goes to fetch a basin and fill it with water, and when he returns he takes Will’s bruised and bloodied hands into his own and begins washing them reverently.

“Don’t let your thoughts stray now, Will,” he says when he sees Will’s eyes begin to drift. “Stay here in the moment. With me.”

Will raises his eyes slowly to look into Hannibal’s now. “Where else would I go?” he asks.

Where else indeed? There is no need to hold back anymore, not with the evidence of Will’s acceptance and devotion to his own transformation laid out here on his table.

He reaches out to grasp the side of Will’s face just as he had done in the stable, stroking along his masculine jawline. Will’s eyes widen beautifully, and Hannibal continues to stare into them, drinking in the minute changes in those glittering blue gems as his mouth descends over Will’s, tasting his fill at last.

Will’s eyes start to slip closed at the first gentle probe of Hannibal’s tongue against his lips, until the fingers in his curls tighten their grip and _pull,_ forcing Will to open them again with a soft gasp. The tongue goes deeper in its intrusion, and even in this Hannibal is nothing less than tightly coiled dominance and restraint, taking control of Will’s mouth with deep, measured thrusts that make Will whimper and blush with the implication.

Then Hannibal releases him abruptly, leaving Will to stand there and reclaim his own breath with long shuddering gasps as he steps away and retrieves a sleek black doctor’s bag.

“Now then,” says Hannibal, calmly as ever as though he is unaffected by what just happened, opening his bag and laying out various tools and implements on the table beside Randall Tier’s body. “Let me see your design, Will.”

Will looks up mildly confused at first, thoughts still on the taste in his mouth and the slight tingle of his scalp from hair being pulled too hard. Hannibal smiles, patient and almost paternal in proud fondness for his beautiful boy. He gestures toward the body on the table.

“Show me how you would honor him,” he says, and takes a step back to watch. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild potential trigger warning for vague remarks on a less-than-happy childhood.

Jack’s eyes burn a hole into Will’s back as they look upon the museum’s newest “display” together. That’s a conversation waiting to happen that Will does not look forward to—it hurts, the wariness and lost trust he can see in Jack’s gaze, even if it is completely warranted considering the circumstances. He _had_ tried to warn Jack that he would be doing a lot of questionable things as part of their plan to ensnare Lecter.

Still, neither of them had quite expected _this._

He closes his eyes, and the rest of the scene drifts away. Jack, Hannibal, the other investigators, all of it gets swept away until only he and Tier are left alone.

_“Hello again,”_ he tells the mutilated corpse before him in the safety of his own imagination.

He’s not surprised when the vision begins to speak back. He can give Randall Tier that much—final words echoing down the corridors of his thoughts like ghosts. He knows he won’t be haunted by Tier the way he was—used to be—by Hobbs. This is his victim’s sole opportunity to get his own dig under Will’s skin before he lays buried and forgotten.

It’s strange though. Terrifying as his words should be, they don’t feel designed to insult or harm. They feel almost…reverent.

_“This is my becoming…and it’s yours.”_

Will opens his eyes. “He knew his killer,” are the first words he speaks as he goes on to describe…well, _himself,_ but only in vague, broad strokes. He doesn’t miss the hidden question, the smallest inflection when Jack asks if the killer _empathized_ with Tier.

“Don’t mistake understanding for empathy, Jack. If it’s anything, it’s envy.”

“Envy?” asks Jack, and Will tries not to curl his hands into fists at his sides. It’s not anger or even judgment he can hear in the man’s tone so much as it is a genuine desire to understand, and _that_ makes Will inexplicably upset. Because _of course_ it’s now that he asks. Of course it’s _now_ that he wants to understand, when it’s perhaps too late and Will’s feet are already sliding out from under him down the slippery slope he’s spent so many years trying to stand upright on without falling.

“Randall Tier came into his own much easier than whoever killed him,” Will explains softly. Jack and Hannibal are both a bit behind him, out of his line of sight, but he doesn’t need to see their reactions to know what they’re thinking. They’ll both have their masks on for different reasons anyway, careful not to reveal themselves to each other, but he can _feel_ the effect of his statements on both of them.

The angel to his right, desperate to do whatever it takes to catch the monsters but equally torn by his need to save his friend from himself. The devil on his left, pleased by the venom spreading across his favorite butterfly’s wings and slowly changing their colors and hues.

They’ll match his master’s before long.

Will isn’t sure he can stop it from happening anymore. But that’s all part of the game, isn’t it? Just a little while longer, he tells himself, and he’ll have what he needs to end this all for good. His reckoning is still at hand. He hasn’t forgotten it.

He just has to keep playing for now.

*

Matthew is finishing breakfast when the news reaches him.

It’s oatmeal and thick, syrupy slices of sugar-free canned pears today. The bland taste and lukewarm temperature don’t bother him—that sort of thing never really has. He was practically raised on institutional fare, being in and out of group homes, RTCs, juvie, or mental hospitals like this one for most of his early life, so he’s used to it by now. As long as it isn’t rotten and passes at least minimal nutritional requirements, he has no complaints.

Will never really complained either, and generally finished everything on his tray but for the times his medication made him feel sick. Matt thinks maybe that too stems from growing up poor and frequently going without, even if Will’s home life was probably better than Matt’s general lack of one overall. Just one more thing they have in common then, even if the circumstances are different.

It’s duller being in here without Will, but he manages. Not much has changed, even with the hospital being under new administration in Chilton’s absence. The interim director is more interested in keeping things running exactly as they have been than he is in tightening ship until a permanent replacement steps in. Therapy sessions have been reduced in number to once every week, and it’s clear that he’s unconcerned about the patients’ progress and only meets with them at all to meet state requirements and ensure that no one is exhibiting signs of being a safety risk.

Chilton may be a little incompetent, unorthodox, and sometimes morally ambiguous in his methods, but at least he had actually _cared._ He doesn’t miss much about the man, but he had been happy to occasionally share news and discuss goings-on in the outside world with Matthew in exchange for slivers of insight—a fair enough trade for Matthew since Chilton wouldn’t have known what to do with the information he was given and a lot of it wasn’t completely truthful anyway. Matthew is adept at giving half-truths and dodging questions he doesn’t care to answer while still giving the impression of being a model, forthcoming and cooperative patient. He’s had plenty of practice.

Now however, his resources for information on what’s happening outside are severely limited. He only has one semi-reliable source at the moment, a part-time nurse named Gretchen who only comes in four mornings out of the week and is overly fond of gossip. Most people don’t know that last tidbit about her for one very simple reason—she’s deaf.

Matt knew a few kids who were deaf while growing up in the system. The first time he ever spoke to her in ASL—asking her to pass him a pair of latex gloves on the countertop behind her—her eyes had lit up and she started chatting to him excitedly, hands signing almost faster than he could read them. Every shift they shared since, Gretchen would find him and unload the latest gossip, like who in the staff was banging who, and anything else she couldn’t talk to her interpreter about because _“she’s such a bitch and no fun anyway, and oh my god someone said you were gay so that means you’ll tell me honestly right, do these flats make my ankles look fat?”_

Matthew put up with it even though he didn’t care about the Kardashians or know what a slingback heel was. All people, no matter who they are, like to be listened to, and if there’s one thing Matthew is, it’s a good listener. Talking to Gretchen was useful for learning things about coworkers and their habits that he might not have known otherwise. People have a tendency to say things they shouldn’t in front of her, not knowing that she can read lips.

Their association is invaluable to him now. Gretchen seems not to mind that he’s on the other side of the bars now, and for attempted murder no less. The most she’d had to say about it had been a quick glance in Will’s direction before she signed, _“Well, at least he’s cute. I would have disowned you otherwise.”_

Will never asked what she said, and Gideon was never there when she visited. (He suspects she timed her visits that way on purpose, out of fear because of what happened to the other nurse.) Will did make a comment once after she left that she must be lonely, and Matthew had feigned offense at the implication that she was lowering her standards to talk to him until Will couldn’t stop laughing.

_God,_ he misses Will.

Gretchen is the one wheeling the laundry cart to exchange bedcovers today. Technically an orderly should be doing it, but she gets away with little things like this sometimes because others either don’t want to waste the time trying to explain it to her or because they pity her, she’d told him once gleefully.

Matthew hadn’t needed the explanation. He knows the advantages of being underestimated very well from first-hand experience, and has used those advantages often in worse ways than she could ever dream of.

“Hey Gretch,” he says out loud when she comes to a stop and turns to see him, giving a small half-wave as he does.

_“Hey Matt,”_ she signs, and that’s it. No barrage of information overload about clothes or TV or sordid rumors, nothing. Her smile seems strained.

_“You ok?”_ he signs to her. Her fingers twitch like she wants to say something, but instead she sighs and looks down, then looks back up and points at his blanket. He nods, picks it up, and hands it to her.

She takes a fresh one from the top of the pile and passes it to him carefully. From this close, he can see that her hands are trembling slightly and hear that her breathing is a little too shallow. She’s nervous about something.

She looks up at him one last time when he takes the blanket from her, something sad and almost pitying in her eyes. _“I’m sorry,”_ she signs, then turns and wheels the cart back down the hall.

Normally he would wait until lights out to shake out the new blanket, but her behavior makes him want to do it now. He leans forward a bit to glance at the morning guard at the end of the hall. It’s Harris today. Harris is very by the book—Matthew doesn’t have a clock to look at, but the laundry cart always comes down around 8:50, which means in about ten minutes Harris will stroll down and glance briefly into Matthew’s cell without so much as a nod in acknowledgement to him to make sure that nothing is amiss. Then he’ll march back to his post and an orderly will come to pick up his breakfast tray at 9:15.

Harris is the type who would probably deem even the smallest break from Matthew’s usual pattern as “suspicious behavior,” so Matthew lays his blanket at the foot of his cot the way he always does, lays back, and opens the latest book that’s been lent out to him— _Songs of Innocence_ this time, odd to see it without its other half. Someone keeps choosing classics for him that he’s already read before, and Matthew believes rather than guessing correctly what he likes, it’s because they assume he’s uncultured and find it humorous to give him something they think he wouldn’t understand.

Good thing he _has_ read it before, since he’s not paying attention to a word of it now and Blake deserves better than that. This is quickly turning into the longest ten minutes of his life.

Harris finally stops by to check in on him, and Matthew lowers the book enough to smile at him and wiggle his fingers in a childish wave like he always does. Harris ignores him completely and goes back to his post like _he_ always does.

Matthew waits until the sound of footsteps has stopped at the end of the corridor before he quietly gets up from his cot and gently unfolds the blanket. He feels it shift and crinkle slightly under his fingers before he sees it—a folded sheet of paper carefully tucked into the middle. He sits up with his back against the wall and unfolds that as well.

For a second he forgets how to breathe.

The image at the top is imperfect, printed in black and white on low resolution with a crease down the middle, but he gets what he needs to from it all the same. Even if he didn’t, the lurid headline— _INSIDE THE ANATOMY OF A MONSTER: Grisly Details on the Murder and Mutilation of a Brutal Serial Killer_ —would have clued him in just fine. Tattle Crime, of course. He quickly checks the date on the top line before moving on to the article itself. It’s todays date. Lounds certainly doesn’t sit on a story for long, bless her.

As with all of her stories, it skimps on substance in favor of wild speculation, though Matthew suspects that like him, she’s too often underestimated. The woman has good instincts; she merely lacks tact or the desire for it. She’s quick to point the finger at Will—though not in so many words, that would be _libel_ —making the usual insinuations about the FBI’s “appalling antics” and those of their “pet psychopath.” Most interestingly, she makes several mentions of Lecter’s name, often in the same sentence as Will’s, linking the two of them together as she’s never done before.

He’s clutching the paper tightly in his hand by the time he’s done. He understands now why Gretchen was so upset. She feels sorry for him, for entirely the wrong reason, the sweet simple girl. To her, Matthew her gossip buddy is some poor dumb fool who fell for the wrong guy and got himself mixed up in something he would never have been involved with otherwise. He would laugh at the notion if he were anywhere near the right mood for it right now.

He can guess how it happened easily enough. He’s no medical expert, but he’s spent enough time as an orderly looking at sutures and stitches and the like to tell at a glance that the cuts, while well made, weren’t surgically done. Lounds is right about that much. This isn’t Lecter’s handiwork. It’s Will’s.

He’s torn on how to feel about that. On the one hand, it is stunning. Gorgeous even. On the other hand, it’s simply… _not Will._ His hands may have done the work, but the signature all over screams of the Ripper. Of Hannibal Lecter.

Matthew had made a fanciful remark to Lecter at the pool house, half joking and half not, that maybe _he_ would be the Ripper after he killed the man, but he hadn’t meant it _literally._ Honoring another man’s work through homage is one thing, but this is closer to an attempt at mimicry.

_Oh, Will._ Beautiful, brilliant, incredible, _stupid_ Will. He’s playing Lecter’s game by Lecter’s rules, and he doesn’t even see it, or possibly he does, but he thinks he has enough control over the situation to still come out of it with the upper hand. He doesn’t. He’s losing. Badly.

He’s almost surprised that instead of the article from Gretchen, he didn’t receive some pretentious missive from Lecter himself, declaring himself the winner of their unofficial “wager.” It’s likely he’s forgotten about Matthew already, which suits him just fine to be honest. He’s used to his so-called betters dismissing him as unimportant, unspecial, uninteresting. Regardless of whether he even takes Matthew into consideration at this point anymore, it’s obvious that Lecter must believe he’s won already. He has successfully forced Will’s hand after all. He made him kill.

That’s the problem. It’s not Will’s choice, and it’s not his design. Whatever Matthew may have said in the beginning to get under Lecter’s skin, it’s never been a _game_ to him, not really. It’s always been about Will, about seeing him be who he was meant to be. Lecter may claim the same and even believe it, but it’s not true. It’s not the real Will that he wants, but a Will-shaped version of himself.

Matthew’s had enough. He’s stayed out of it up to this point, giving Will a chance to handle this his own way. But he’ll be damned if he stands by and watches while Will loses sight of what “his own way” even means. Besides, Lecter’s not the only one who can play dirty.

It’s time for Matthew to rejoin the game. Tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Songs of Innocence_ and _Songs of Experience_ are Blake works that are often put together as one text in most modern editions, generally called _Songs of Innocence and of Experience._ And incidentally 'Auguries of Innocence' (the 'robin redbreast in a cage' poem) is in neither of them. So it is sort of a reference, just not a direct one. And now you know! ;)
> 
> ASL = American sign language  
> RTC = [residential treatment center](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Residential_treatment_center#Children_and_teens)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so, so sorry for the inexcusably long hiatus, you guys! I focused all of my writing energies on posting multiple chapters of _De Profundis_ for awhile and totally neglected this one and _all monsters and dust._ D: To make it up to you at least a little bit, this update is pretty action-packed and slightly longer compared to the others (about 3,205 words).
> 
> Warning for stronger/more offensive language than normal this chapter, bigotry, and hateful slurs.

Matthew knows the pattern. By lights out, all of the unnecessary staff are gone for the day. To cut corners and reduce costs, Chilton had determined a long time ago that three guards and an emergency nurse or orderly on duty in the clinic were all that would be needed to staff the night crew for the entire hospital.

The inmates aren’t supposed to know this, of course. To make the whole place seem more secure and locked down tighter than it really is at night, one of the guards will leave the station at the front entrance at irregular intervals and patrol the halls randomly, occasionally adding to the illusion of a full complement of men on duty by engaging the other two in boisterous chatter over the radio while walking down heavily populated corridors, a tactic Matthew never saw as anything other than an obnoxious way to disturb patients trying to sleep.

The second guard stays in the nest and monitors the camera feeds—what few of them are working properly at any rate. All of them are grainy at best and many that are supposed to be motion-sensored are too old to move anymore and actually fixed instead at strategic points such as exits, leaving a lot of blind spots scattered randomly throughout the hospital. Matthew knows them all.

He also knows for a fact that the camera on the high security ward _—his_ ward—points almost directly down, recording only the main doorway where the third guard remains standing for most of the night. In theory, the only time the guard is supposed to leave that spot is to do rounds up and down the corridor every once in awhile, but in reality most of the guys assigned here don’t even do that much.

The microphones are probably still on as well, but the audio feeds always went directly to Chilton’s laptop in his office rather than the guard’s nest, so there’s nothing to worry about there either. The final thing that needs to be taken into account then is whoever is on duty in the clinic. It’s Thursday, so tonight will be either Angela or Rashid, or Queen Xanax and Captain Twitchy as Gretchen likes to call them.

Angela has a pill-popping habit that leaves her practically catatonic—if not _literally_ passed out on one of the clinic beds for most of the night—whenever she works graveyard shift, and Rashid has the most unsteady pair of hands Matthew has ever seen on a nurse, with a strong aversion to leaving the clinic except for quick runs to the break room or bathroom because he finds the darkness and quiet of the corridors “too creepy” at night. Fortunately for them, that means neither are likely to pose a threat to Matthew’s evening plans as long as they don’t deviate from their normal routines.

An obnoxiously loud victory jingle echoes down the corridor, followed by a muttered curse as the guard at the other end hastily mutes it and stage whispers to the room at large, _“Uh, sorry.”_

Matthew’s lips twitch up into a pleased smile. If the illicit phone wasn’t enough of a giveaway already, hearing the man’s voice seals it. Mahoney is on duty tonight. _Perfect._ This couldn’t have worked out better if he’d planned it.

“What’re you playing, Stan?” he asks, standing to lean against the bars and dangle his arms out between them.

“It’s lights out. Back to bed, inmate,” Mahoney tells him, trying and almost managing to sound stern as he says it.

“Stan. ‘Inmate,’ _really?_ Are you being serious right now?” he says, allowing some of his false lisp from before he was caught to slip in and giving the man his most disarming smile from behind the bars.

“Come on, Matthew, arms back in your cell at least. Don’t get me in trouble.” _This,_ Matthew thinks, _is a prime example of why men like you should never be in a position of authority over others._ It’s not the fact that Mahoney is _nice—_ nice is a fine quality to have as long as one also possesses some level of competence and sense to back it up. Mahoney has neither of these things. It’s why he’s down here in high security, on what _should_ be an assignment only given to senior officers who actually know what they’re doing, but in actual practice is usually a lonely, boring punishment detail given to whomever the other guards feel least like socializing with. It’s basically high school all over again.

Matthew makes a show of looking up and down the hallway as if to say, _‘In trouble with who?’_ but pulls his arms back obligingly as asked.

The man is clearly not used to being listened to, if the way he smiles back and relaxes his posture is anything to go by. “Thanks. And, uh, sorry again. For waking you.”

“You didn’t, I was up,” says Matthew. “So tell me what you’re playing. I’m _bored,_ man,” he whines, knowing the guy who spends his entire shift on his phone against hospital regulation can certainly relate to the concept.

Mahoney looks back at the device in his hand in mild embarrassment. “It’s, uh, just some stupid game my niece showed me. Dumb as hell but it’s so addictive.”

“Oh, I know, I used to play on those apps all the time,” Matthew lies. He’s never even owned a smartphone or tablet. “Got so good at them too. It’s weird, y’know, the things you don’t even realize you’ll miss when you’re in jail,” he lisps with a self-effacing grin. “Can I see it?”

“Matthew, I’m not even supposed to talk to you like this. Of course I’m not about to hand you my _phone,”_ Mahoney scoffs, huffing out an awkward, obviously uncomfortable laugh.

“Aw come on, I’m not asking you to hand it to me, just show me what level you’re on.”

Mahoney glances warily up at the camera above out of the corner of his eye.

“They’re not gonna see you down here,” Matthew assures. “It’ll just look like you’re doing your rounds. Who am I gonna tell otherwise?”

The other man releases a sigh, caving easily under the continued peer pressure. “Fine. Just for a sec, okay, then I’m going right back to my post.”

_Oh, little bird,_ he thinks as the man starts to walk over, mentally shaking his head in disappointment. There is no challenge to this game. Were he a good man, he might actually feel guilt or pity for the poor dumb bastard.

Good thing he isn’t one.

“Here, uh, see? I’m almost to Candy Mountain,” Mahoney says, standing at the ‘Do Not Cross’ line and holding his arm out as far as it will go.

Matthew leans forward, hands gripping the bars, and squints. “Nah, sorry, you’re gonna have to bring it closer,” he says with an embarrassed laugh. “They don’t let me wear my contacts anymore.”

“Oh, uh, sorry. I didn’t even know you had bad eyesight,” Mahoney tells him, creeping slightly closer.

Matthew’s face clears of all pretense, leaving him with only his own natural serene smile as he says calmly, “I don’t.”

It’s over in seconds. He moves quickly, darting his arm out faster than the man can react and wrapping one hand around his wrist to yank him forward. The straight angle of Mahoney’s outstretched arm gives Matthew the perfect leverage to pull it through the bars and apply enough pressure at the right points to snap it cleanly. The man howls in pain and shock, blindly groping with his free hand for the radio or taser at his hip, whichever he can reach first.

Matthew doesn’t give him that chance, reaching up with both hands and twisting his head sharply. Mahoney’s neck breaks with a sickening crack and his body slumps to the floor.

Matthew’s heartbeat is steady the whole time, his breath even. He kneels down to the floor and slides his hand between the bars again to unclip the key ring dangling from the man’s belt loop.

“Thanks buddy.”

*

“Puerto Rican bitches, man, I’m telling you!”

“You’re disgusting, Tibbins,” says Jones. His words have no impact, however, punctuated as they are by bouts of laughter as Tibbins finishes telling his story.

“Yeah, that’s what she said too.”

Jones nearly chokes on his drink, trying to keep another amused snort from escaping.  “I almost spat out my coffee, you asshole,” he says but Tibbins is clearly not listening, his own smile morphing into an irritated scowl as he glances at one of the monitors behind Jones.

“Where the fuck is Mahoney?”

Jones spins around in his chair to look at the screen Tibbins is pointing out. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s actually doing his damn job for once instead of playing around on his phone.”

“Nah, he’s been gone for like two minutes. It doesn’t take that long to walk down a fucking hallway and back.”

Jones shrugs. “Maybe he’s taking a piss break then, how should I know?”

“He’s supposed to tell us that first, dumbshit, so I can take his post while he’s gone. There has to be someone down there at all times! Fucking Christ, am I the only one who gives a _fuck_ _about the rules anymore?”_

“Calm down, man, we all know Mahoney’s a dumb fucking sack of rocks. He probably just forgot.”

“Well, that makes it perfectly fucking alright then, doesn’t it?” Tibbins sneers. “Turn around and look for him on the other monitors for Christ’s sake! _Do your fucking job!”_

Jones grinds his teeth and barely holds back from pointing out that it’s Tibbins’ fault he wasn’t paying attention in the first place. He knows better than to argue with the man when he gets like this. He spins around again and glares at the array of monitors in front of him.

“There,” he says, pointing at one of the monitors on the far left. It’s difficult to see on the black-and-white screen, especially considering the low lighting of the corridors at night and the fact that their uniforms are black, but he can just barely make out the dark shape on screen, walking leisurely in Mahoney’s terrible signature slouch.

“The fuck is he doing up there?” Tibbins mutters. The corridor they’re looking at is two flights up from the basement floor where Mahoney should be. Tibbins unhooks the walkie from his belt. “Mahoney, report!” The walkie clicks off with a loud static hum. There is no response. Tibbins holds the button down again and says louder, _“Mahoney!_ I’m fucking talking to you. Where the _fuck_ are you going?”

The figure on the screen keeps moving at the same pace, nonreactive to the verbal abuse, and disappears from view as he walks into one of the hospital’s blind spots. _“Goddammit!”_ Tibbins yells.

“Five bucks says he forgot to charge his walkie again,” says Jones.

“I oughta beat the shit out of that fucking retard—”

“Hey, _hey!_ I got a cousin with Downs, don’t say that shit in front of me—”

“Shut the fuck up, Jones! Nobody gives a shit about your retarded cousin,” says Tibbins. “I’m heading down there. He’s going back to his fucking post if I have to drag him there myself.”

“Yeah, I think you should go,” says Jones, eager to get Tibbins out of his sight before he gives into the urge to punch him in the teeth. Tibbins may be less boring to talk to than Mahoney, but too much time in the man’s company tends to grate on his nerves after awhile. _“Fucking prick,”_ he grumbles as Tibbins slams the door shut behind him.

Tibbins storms furiously to the last place they saw Mahoney, moving quickly to try and head him off. When he gets there, he sees that the door to one of the medical supply closets is open, something they hadn’t noticed before since it was right out of camera range. _“The hell were you doing in there?”_ he mutters to himself. Maybe _‘stealing’_ should be added to the report he’s determined to write up on Mahoney now, along with _‘shirking duties’_ and _‘having contraband items outside of the locker room again.’_

He goes in to see if anything is missing, but it’s too dark to tell. He’s fumbling for the light switch when he notices something out of the corner of his eye, movement from the other side of the door. “What—”

The figure tases him in the side, causing him to stumble to the floor in surprise as the mild electrical current runs through him. Before he can recover his equilibrium, the back of his head is slammed into the wall behind him, leaving him dazed. The other wastes no time, quickly handcuffing both of his hands to a pipe running along the wall, shutting the door, and removing the guard’s weapons and walkie before ever bothering to turn on the light. Tibbins squints his eyes shut against the sudden brightness.

“Frank Tibbins,” says a delighted voice above him. Tibbins kicks out blindly on instinct, eyes opening again finally when his foot meets only empty air.

“I thought I recognized your sweet, soothing voice a few minutes ago,” says Matthew Brown, leaning casually against the back wall, wearing Mahoney’s uniform and boots instead of his own jumpsuit. “It’s hard to tell on these old things,” he says, waving Tibbins’ walkie in his right hand, “but you have such a distinctive way with words, it wasn’t too difficult to guess.”

“Oh, _holy fuck,”_ says Tibbins as his brain catches up with what’s happening.

“I’m really glad you’re here tonight, Frank,” says Matthew sincerely. “I was hoping we could catch up after our last chat.”

Frank’s eyes widen. Their last “chat” had just been Brown sitting in his cell and looking up at him with the same bright, out-of-place grin he wore now, while Frank had sneered and called him a faggot and any other name he could think of before returning to his rounds. He hadn’t understood then why the guy would just smile at him like that while he threw every slur he knew at him, and had simply assumed that he must be slow.

There is definitely nothing ‘slow’ about the sharpness of the other man’s gaze, however.

_“HEY! HEYYYYY!!”_ he starts yelling with his neck craned toward the shut door. _“SOMEBODY HELP! JONES!!”_

Matthew is unconcerned by the noise. The walls are thick, and any patient who might overhear is undoubtedly used to some of their cellblock mates occasionally crying out at night and will know to just tune it out. As Tibbins continues to scream himself hoarse, Matthew opens the small medical bag he had been packing before he heard the man’s footsteps coming around the corner and pulls out a thin scalpel.

“Unfortunately I’m on a bit of a tight schedule,” he says when Tibbins pauses to take a breath. Matthew has learned his lesson about dragging his work out for too long after Lecter’s escape from justice. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy what little time we do have together,” he tells Tibbins, and removes the plastic cap from the blade.

If one were to listen with their ear at the door right at this moment, they would hear Tibbins’ muffled screams renew louder for a few agonizing seconds, and then stop.

*

“Tibbins, what’s going on? Did you find him yet? I don’t have a visual on either of you,” Jones says into his walkie.

_“Hey, uh, it’s me, Jones. Not, uh, not Tibbins.”_ The voice on the other end crackles with too much static, but Jones would recognize the speaker’s stumbling speech anywhere. He rolls his eyes. “Mahoney. What’s your location and Tibbins’?”

_“I don’t know. I mean, uh, I know he’s doing his rounds. Said he might as well since, y’know, he, uh, had to come get me anyway,”_ says the other speaker sheepishly. _“I don’t know where he is right this second though. He made me take his walkie because mine, um, died. Heh.”_

“Really. I would never have guessed,” says Jones flatly. “Glad we solved that perplexing mystery. Now where are you, genius?”

_“Oh! I’m…well here, look, I’m at one of the cameras now. See?”_

It takes Jones a few seconds of browsing over all the monitors before he sees him, face indistinguishable under the peaked service cap of their uniform and standing a couple of yards away, but recognizable by the slouch and insecure hunch of his shoulders, waving his hand back and forth repeatedly like an overexcited puppy.

What he fails to notice, since it doesn’t show up well on the low-quality image in front of him, is the dark streak of blood on the man’s black shirt collar.

“Stop doing that, you look like a jackass,” he says into his walkie. The figure freezes and then drops his hand awkwardly.

“You’re still going the wrong way, genius,” he continues. “You’re supposed to be down in the basement, not coming further up.” Mahoney isn’t too far now from where Jones is stationed at the front.

_“I know that!”_ the other squawks indignantly. _“I know you guys all think I’m stupid, but I’m not,”_ he says, and Jones actually winces a bit guiltily at the accusation. _“I was just coming up to get a Coke from one of the vending machines before Tibbins stopped me.”_

Jones sighs and decides not to point out that no one is allowed to have food out in the corridors. It’s another one of those rules not worth trying to enforce with Mahoney since he obviously doesn’t care enough to stick to all of them anyway. Considering how much he’s invoked Tibbins’ ire tonight, it’ll be surprising if he gets to keep his job for much longer. The hospital admin can only overlook so many complaints before cutting him loose, right?

Right. Then again, their temporary boss really isn’t much better than Chilton. Maybe they shouldn’t get their hopes too high for real reforms just yet.

“So why aren’t you in the break room then?” he asks.

_“The one in there ate my dollar last time. I’m just gonna use the one up front.”_

“That one doesn’t work anymore,” says Jones, feeling truly exasperated now. It hasn’t worked in years, surely everyone knows that? He feels distinctly less guilty now for all the times he’s called Mahoney an idiot behind his back. “Tell you what,” he says, knowing already that he may regret this decision later, but he definitely doesn’t want to listen to Mahoney whine at him about how thirsty he is or whatever. “You’re nearly here already, just come up to the nest and I’ll buzz you in. I’ll lend you some quarters for the other machine.”

_“Really? Awesome, thanks man!”_

“Yeah, just hurry up already,” Jones answers. “I don’t wanna hear it from Tibbins if he comes back and catches you up here.”

*

Matthew looks up again at the camera at the far end of the hall. His lips curl up into a small imperceptible smile as he lifts the walkie to his face one last time.

“On my way.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Due to workload and my snail-pace writing habits, updates will probably be roughly once per month from now on. Just a heads-up, guys!
> 
> This chapter I give a slightly more involved explanation for a couple of alterations I made to S2 with this series--namely those involving Margot and Abigail. I like to think the reason I give here is equally valid and realistic despite taking a different direction from the show, namely because so much of Hannibal's M.O. seems to be about whimsy and split decision-making. ~~In other words, author makes fancy-sounding excuses for his "fix-its" and expects you to totes buy them, okay? Okay, thanks!~~

By all rights, Will should feel utterly drained by this point. He stayed up half the night preparing Randall Tier’s body and arranging it in a suitable display that Hannibal would be proud to see. Then Jack had dragged him out to _his own scene_ early in the morning after he had managed only a scant few hours of sleep.

The rest of the day had been an exercise in dodging Jack’s questions, more mental acrobatics in the form of therapy and riddles with Hannibal, and an exhausting interview with Freddie Lounds that made it painfully clear there was nothing he could do to derail her from the self-destructive path she set herself on this morning, when she published the garish article that all but blatantly implicated him and Hannibal directly for the murder and hinted at far more to come. Will refrained from commenting anything to her about self-fulfilling prophesies, but throughout the evening he carried with him the uneasy feeling that if he didn’t do something soon, Freddie Lounds’ days were truly numbered.

Even the Chesapeake Ripper has only a finite well of patience to pull from after all, and Miss Lounds’ allegations had been _quite rude._

For that reason, instead of falling into bed as soon as he got home, Will has stayed up, restless and pacing as he tries to determine what he’s going to do—how he can get to the reporter before Hannibal does and figure out a way to keep her safe. All the while, an ugly thought keeps trying to make itself heard from a dark corner of his brain, _What if I simply do nothing at all?_

Would it not be easier, after all, to just let the Ripper swat this one pest down that has been a thorn in both of their sides since Will first met her? Wouldn’t Lounds’ untimely death right after such a salacious article, for the first time ever pointing an accusing finger at the renowned psychiatrist himself, stack yet more evidence against Hannibal and make him that much easier to catch? _Wouldn’t the air be that much fresher and cleaner to breathe without Lounds polluting it with her continued presence on this earth?_

A soft whine pulls him back from his grim reverie, causing him to tear his gaze away from the empty fireplace he had been staring blankly into in order to look down. Winston is standing in front of him, regarding his master with eyes that to Will look far too sad and knowing to belong to any dog. “Hey boy,” he says and reaches out to scratch behind Winston’s ears.

The sight of his own scraped and bruised knuckles against the dog’s warm fur makes his throat clench tightly until it is almost painful to swallow. He is struck once again by the same terrifying conviction he felt last night after the attack, that his life is spinning out of his control far too quickly and dangerously for those around him, and that if he keeps going on the trajectory he’s on now, it will be the innocents around him that suffer for it. Not just the dogs, but Alana, Jack…and yes, even _Freddie Lounds._

He is also struck by the realization that it is already _far too late_ to turn back now. The last opportunity for that slipped by once he wrapped Randall Tier’s body up in plastic and laid it out on his psychiatrist’s dining room table. If he tries to stop now, everything will have been for nothing. He will find himself back behind bars while Lecter continues to go free—status quo once more, like he was never released.

Will closes his eyes and focuses solely for just a moment on the feeling of Winston’s fur between his fingers. He does not allow himself to dwell on how differently this entire situation has gone from what he had planned—on how little he has been able to predict Hannibal Lecter despite knowing what he is, or on how confused he is about his own feelings for the man when it should all be so obvious and simple. _My name is Will Graham. I’m in Wolf Trap, Virginia, and I wish for once in my life I actually knew what the hell it is that I want._

He sighs. “You guys want outside?” he asks the room at large, his lips quirking automatically into a small half-smile when half a dozen pairs of ears perk up at the word _‘outside.’_

He lets them all out and stands watch from the other side of the screen door for a few minutes, until the cold is too much for him even on this side where the wind chill can’t reach him. To be honest, even after years of living up north he still hasn’t gotten used to all the snow. He thinks sometimes about moving back south—not Louisiana again most likely, but somewhere with a beach and the smell of sea salt in the air.

Thinking of it now is an unpleasant reminder, even something as quaint and simple as that seeming like a lofty and unattainable dream, given his current life choices. It hardly matters what the hell Will Graham wants when he seems forever destined to fall short of the mark, doesn’t he? Will steps away from the open front door to the kitchen and pours a drink to warm himself up, scowling.

The sound of barking outside makes him hurriedly set it back on the counter. He grabs his coat and rifle automatically on the way to the door, paranoid after what happened last night. He hopes to god it’s just some animal stirring up his dogs this time, not another madman bent on hurting them or killing him. With the kind of luck he’s been faced with lately, it may be too much to ask for.

He whistles but only two of the dogs heed him, Winston and Buster both running back to meet him while the others continue chasing after whatever caught their attention. Will utters a curse under his breath and trudges after them, Winston and Buster following obediently at his heels. He heads into the same thicket of trees that the rest of his pack disappeared into and treads softly, wary of his surroundings and careful not to trip over anything in the dark.

A shadow of movement ahead makes him freeze in his tracks. His throat tightens. He raises his weapon cautiously. No mistakes this time, no taking risks for the thrill of it. If it moves to attack, he will shoot, plain and simple.

The figure comes closer. From this distance, he can just make out its antlers. Will’s eyebrows furrow. For a moment, he feels confused about his dogs chasing it down, wondering how on earth his stag could have stepped out of his nightmares and into reality. The figure takes another step forward, directly into a patch of moonlight filtering down through the trees, and Will realizes that it’s…an ordinary deer. The dogs come barreling after it a moment later, scaring it off with all their excited barking and rustling through the underbrush.

Will lowers his gun finally, unsure whether he wants to laugh or cry, still feeling uneasy and on edge despite all evidence that he has no reason to be. “Good job, guys,” he croaks out shakily. “Now, come on, back to the house.” All of them obey this time, following him back the way he came and up the steps of the front porch.

Will makes sure he counts seven heads going in before he steps inside after them, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. The dogs shake themselves off and lay down at their beds together for warmth. Guiltily, Will walks over and turns up the space heater. He’ll get a fire going too in a minute after he gets settled in again.

He sets his gun down on the desk and goes back to the kitchen, unbothered for the moment by the wet footprints he’s leaving in his wake, merely grateful that it’s only his own and the dogs’ paw prints on the wooden floor that he sees. He doesn’t know what he would have done if there were signs of anyone else in the house once he got back.

He quickly knocks back the drink sweating condensation onto his countertop and pours another, not even bothering with more ice this time. He sips more languidly, however, allows his eyes to slide shut and takes a deep breath to calm his nerves. _It was just a deer,_ he reminds himself. There is no one else here. Nothing is wrong. Everything is fine. _Everything is fine._

Half-empty tumbler in hand, he turns to head back into the living room. It only takes a few steps for him to realize something is… _off._ He sways on his feet, hand reaching out to grasp the frame of the doorway between the kitchen and the living room in order to catch himself from falling. His head is too heavy for his neck to hold up, so he lets it loll and rest against the cool wooden frame, blinking slowly.

_“What…”_ he tries to say, but it comes out as a whisper, soft and almost inaudible. He barely even notices when the thick, heavy glass in his hand slips from his numb fingers, sloshing whiskey everywhere before falling to the floor with a loud _thump_ that startles the dogs and rolling a few feet away. By that point, Will is losing his own fight with gravity, lucid enough at least to allow himself to slide gently down the wall to the floor, before his knees can buckle out from under him and possibly cause him injury should he land wrong.

His mind works sluggishly and each blink of his eyes seems to last longer than the one before it, so it takes a minute for him to realize someone is calming his dogs, soothing every distressed growl and fretful whine for their master until all of them return to lying in their beds, some of them even going back to sleep. _Blink._

He sees a pair of socked feet and legs covered in black slacks. _Oh. Smart,_ he thinks, at the moment not really sure why he seems to think so. _Blink._ The legs are much closer to him now.

_Blink._ The legs are gone, replaced by a familiar face that would startle Will to see it if he had enough energy left in him to react that strongly. _“Hey,”_ says a familiar, soft-spoken voice that he hasn’t heard in what seems like a terribly long time. The man’s eyes flick over to the side, looking at something Will can’t see without turning his head, and that isn’t happening anytime soon. “Had a funny feeling that might work a little _too_ well,” he says, tone a bit amused and somehow sad all at once.

_I missed you._ Even in this slow, sluggish state, he knows that’s an absurd and foolish thing to want to say to someone who obviously just drugged him. It’s probably for the best that he’s too lethargic to actually respond. He wonders if it isn’t showing on his face somehow anyway, as the other returns his gaze to Will and smiles fondly at him. “It’s gonna be okay, baby,” he says, reaching up and carding his fingers through Will’s hair so gently that the older man can’t help letting his eyes fall closed again. _“I’m here now.”_

The last thing Will thinks about, before the darkness behind his eyelids claims him, is the warmth and safety of being _home._

*

Killing three armed men and stealing a car had been easy compared to this. He knew before he ever left the hospital parking lot that what he had planned would never be as simple as knocking on Will’s door and offering his help. Will would be stubborn and determined to see things through as he set them out to the bitter end, and what’s more he would feel obligated because of his continued ties to the FBI to turn Matthew right back in if he tried.

Nervous like a kid about to ask someone to prom and shivering in the cold, Matthew sees opportunity when Will turns away from watching his dogs play outside and acts swiftly, tossing a rock in the general direction of some movement he’d seen earlier in the woods so the pups will go after it, then sidling back into the shadows he’d been hiding in, keeping absolutely quiet and still as Will comes outside and calls out to them.

The rest is simple enough but nerve-wracking as hell, Will being far more observant than most. Matthew has to retrace Will’s tracks in the snow as carefully as possible to avoid leaving noticeable ones of his own, then unlace his boots as soon as he reaches the front steps so he doesn’t track dirt and wet footprints inside, all the while knowing Will could turn back to the house and see him at any moment. Once inside, he laces the whiskey sitting on the counter with a dose of the strongest sedative he could find in the hospital’s medical stores, finds another place to hide, and waits.

The most stressful part of his evening now over, Matthew quickly sets to work. He scoops Will up easily into his arms and carries him over to the bed, gently laying him down on top of it, unable to resist brushing the man’s hair back from his forehead one more time before he moves on.  

The first thing he does is wipe up the spilled alcohol with a dish rag and set the cracked glass aside on the nearest table. Might be a waste of time, but it’s probably not good to let dogs get into stuff like that even without the potential for drug residue. Then he goes in search of a suitcase. The great thing about nabbing Will at his own house is the opportunity to stock up on supplies here. They’ll need them.

He has to go back outside and walk about half a mile up the road to where he parked the car, hidden from view. It would be simpler and save time to just use Will’s, but he left a few things in the trunk of Jones’ car that will prove…useful…tonight if he sets them up right. He pulls the car up next to Will’s in the driveway and throws everything he packed into the backseat.

The last thing he does before leaving is dump the giant bag of dog food in the pantry out onto the kitchen floor. It’s probably unnecessary since Will will likely be reported missing tomorrow morning, but he feels like Will would appreciate the thought behind the gesture were he conscious.

The handful of dogs that come running at the sound certainly seem to appreciate it. One of them ignores the food, however, choosing instead to watch silently as Matthew gingerly lifts Will out of bed and carries him out to the car without looking back.

*

This evening has progressed fairly well, if a bit dully, for Hannibal Lecter. His final appointment for the day is with Margot Verger, a lively and refreshing young woman from a repulsive and wealthy family. He would venture to say he rather likes her, more than he likes most of his other patients with one rather notable exception, so seeing that today she is feeling even more bitter and agitated than usual, he offers her a drink after her session is over, to see if that will loosen her up a bit more as it so often does with others.

It does work to a certain extent, but he suspects there is still much the young Verger heiress chooses to keep to herself, despite the overwhelming wealth of information she has already given about herself and her family in the past. It is one of the reasons he finds her so intriguing.

He has thought of a number of possible solutions concerning her problems with her disgusting brother and the fortune she will never be allowed to inherit from him, but he has not decided on anything as of yet. He had once briefly toyed with the idea of introducing her to Will, as part of one of those plans he was considering, but had ultimately decided against it. Such an endeavor would not end well for the poor girl. He is aware enough of his own failings to realize that he would be far too jealous and possessive of Will to allow anyone else the opportunity to be near him. He had decided at the last minute not to allow Abigail to live for that very reason.

It is late when Miss Verger leaves, but he decides on a whim to make a visit to the grocer on his way home. Tomorrow he will invite dear Will to a celebratory dinner, in honor of today’s success.

His phone rings as he enters the foyer of his home. He shifts the groceries to his other arm and takes it out of his pocket, a slight smile alighting his face when he sees the name on his caller ID. “Will,” he answers warmly.

_“Sorry, Doc, wrong number,”_ says a different voice on the other end. _“Or more accurately, right number, wrong caller.”_

_Doc._ Were he anyone else, Hannibal might roar and seethe with rage. “Who is this?” he asks, feigning ignorance.

_“I may not be memorable to most, Doc, but I know you’re not that forgetful. I’m gonna cut right to it, okay? I have something of yours.”_

Hannibal straightens. His face could be etched in stone. “I suspected as much.”

_“Oh, you’ve already seen it?”_ Brown asks.

Hannibal tilts his head thoughtfully, feeling a mild confusion that would be delightfully novel in its rarity under other circumstances. “Seen it?” he asks. He had assumed they were talking about Will.

_“Ohhh, you haven’t yet,”_ says Brown, in that faintly amused lilt that sets Hannibal’s teeth on edge. _“Well then, you should know that before I left Baltimore, I made a quick stopover at your house. Was a little disappointed you weren’t there, but I guess that’s really for the best for now. I mean, all considered.”_

“Indeed,” says Lecter, setting the groceries aside for the moment and walking through the house, turning on the lights as he goes and inspecting each room at a glance for anything missing. “A pity I was not here to offer you my hospitality.”

_“Indeed,”_ the younger man parrots back. Hannibal would like very much to cut that childish tongue out of the man’s head. _“Did you find it yet?”_ he asks like a giddy puppy.

“Not yet. A moment, please,” Hannibal answers. He steps into the dining room and turns on the light. “Ah,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “I see.” He is mildly amused and grudgingly somewhat impressed by the man’s audacity. “I would not have thought it was to your tastes.”

_“I’m not surprised you feel that way. You don’t think much of me or my ‘tastes,’ do you, Doctor Lecter?”_

“It is undamaged, I trust?” Lecter asks.

_“What kind of monster do you take me for?”_ Brown asks in return. _“I was very delicate with it,”_ he answers sincerely.

“I should hope so,” Hannibal replies. “You hold a much treasured possession of mine.”

_“I promise, no ugly slashes or graffiti marks,”_ Brown says dryly.

“I was speaking of Will,” Hannibal says.

There is silence on the other end for a couple of long seconds. _“Why do you think I took it?”_ the other asks tersely, apparently ignoring the correction, all previous levity gone from his tone.

Hannibal smirks to think he has struck a nerve with his remark. Matthew Brown is truly a fool, however, if he thinks he can mark ownership where Hannibal has already staked a claim. “May I speak with Will, Matthew?” he asks.

_“More importantly, why am I calling to tell you about it?”_

That piques Hannibal’s intrigue. “Yes, I have been wondering that.”

_“Since you like games so much, Doctor, here’s a new one for you,”_ Matthew says quickly, clearly eager to push on. _“There are a few different ways we could play it. I’ll leave that decision up to you. Option one, of course, is the Good Samaritan route. You call the cops or the FBI right now and tell them an escaped convict has your patient hostage. They trace the phone, obviously, which leads to them catching up with us that much faster. Here’s the catch though,”_ Matthew says, his lighter, happier tone returning to his voice. _“It’s not just our clock that runs out of time. Yours does too.”_

“My clock. Until they…catch me?” Hannibal asks, wanting to make sure he understands. “How so?”

_“Been downstairs since you got home?”_

Hannibal laughs, genuinely entertained once more as soon as he realizes the implication. “I see. You took from more than just the dining room then. Very clever, Mr. Brown.”

_“You could risk it,”_ Matthew tells him. _“If you’re willing to bet you can get to your stuff before the authorities do. No? Option two then. Track us down on your own without Big Brother’s help. Maybe you’ll find your stuff on the way before they do, maybe not. Probably not. You don’t really know me well enough to guess where I’d take it, after all,”_ he says. _“So either way, your life in Baltimore is basically forfeit. I hope you had a good backup city in mind already.”_

Hannibal frowns. “Not in this country,” he admits honestly. He had been thinking of returning to Europe with Will in any case, but had wanted to do so in his own time and on his own terms. Matthew Brown is quickly elevating himself to a more irritating level of nuisance than Hannibal is normally used to dealing with. “I am not sure your second option would be any more prudent for me than the first.”

_“Aw, that’s too bad,”_ Brown says sweetly. _“Well, I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”_

“I’m sure you’re right,” says Hannibal just as pleasantly. “Until we meet again, Mr. Brown.”

_“See you soon, Doc.”_

Hannibal has much packing and preparing to do before he leaves tonight then. He decides he will go on ahead to Europe and allow Will to seek him out later, or Brown, if he dares. Far better to allow one’s prey to come to oneself, after all, than to go chasing after it.

*

Matthew looks down at the phone in his hand for a moment, then sets it down carefully on top of a note with the rest of his offering and goes back out into the cold. What he had neglected to mention to Lecter is that the place he decided to leave it at would be totally random and hold no meaning for him whatsoever. Not somewhere associated with him to allow anyone to find it quickly, but not so far off the beaten path either that no one would be able to find it for days.

The car is still warm and running when he gets back to it. He had left it on so Will would stay warm and comfortable inside.

He looks over at his unconscious passenger and resists the urge to reach out and touch again, just to check that he really is there and really within reach, not separated from him by several feet of concrete and iron bars between them.

“Off we go,” he says softly, smiling, and puts the car into gear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg, I forgot how much I love writing dialogue between Hannibal and Matthew! It's just so much _fuuuuun!!_ ^_^


	5. Chapter 5

After the fifth call rings out with no answer, Jack unceremoniously shoves his phone back into his pocket and says, “We’re going to Wolf Trap.”

“What about Baltimore?” asks Zeller.

Jack huffs out an irritated sigh, clearly frustrated by the turn of events and the way it’s pulling him in too many directions at once. “Jimmy, you go to Baltimore,” he says to Price. “Process the bodies and hold the scene down as best as you can until Zee and I can meet you there. Do _not_ let Baltimore PD get their hands on any of it,” he cautions. “Bring some other agents with you if you need to, just get it done.” Price nods once curtly and leaves the room, go bag in tow.

“Zee, you’re coming with me,” Jack continues. “I’m more concerned about where Brown might have gone _after_ his killing spree at the hospital.”

“You really think he’d go after Will?” The withering glare Jack throws at Zeller would be enough to cow him if he wasn’t already used to that kind of reaction. “I’m just saying _Lecter’s_ the one he tried to kill before,” Zeller points out.

“That was when he thought Will was the Copycat Killer,” Jack answers brusquely. “He wanted to please him. I don’t know about you, but if I went to jail for someone, I might be a bit bitter to find out that person wasn’t quite what I thought they were.” As he slides into the driver’s seat, he adds, “Just in case though, I also called the police chief in Baltimore and asked him to check in on Doctor Lecter at his office and his home. That’ll have to do for the moment. We’re stretched thin enough as it is right now.”

The sun is already much higher in the sky than he wishes it to be, and steadily climbing as they make their way to Will’s house, putting far more hours between Brown’s escape and their arrival than he would like. He doesn’t care to think about what they’ll find, but odds are not good that it will simply be an exhausted and overworked Will Graham managing somehow to sleep through his alarm as well as half a dozen phone calls.

Jack’s phone goes off at some point during the drive. He pulls his eyes away from the road only long enough for a quick glance at the caller ID, grimacing when he sees what number it is and sending it straight to voicemail before putting it away again.

It goes off again a few minutes later. Zeller side-eyes him without comment as Jack blatantly ignores the loud renewed buzzing in his coat pocket.

Both men pull out their sidearms as a precaution once they get there, unnecessary though it may be since Jack doubts they will find any escaped convicts lying in wait for them inside. They are extremely cautious entering the house as well, remembering all too well the immolating trap triggered at the unfortunate bailiff’s house.

The front door is unlocked, but for all they know Will might be the type to leave it that way since he lives so far out in the countryside. There are seven mutts to greet them, all of them familiar enough with Jack that they are only mildly wary of the strange man he brought with him, but no Will.

The only things noticeably out of place downstairs are a handful of drawers left open and a half-empty bag of dog food slashed open and spilled out all over the kitchen floor. And of course, the tarped-over window where Randall Tier must have busted through, just as Will had told him. Zee stares at it with open interest for a moment, but lets it go when he sees Jack’s utter lack of surprise. Upstairs, the closet door is left hanging open, and several articles appear to be missing there as well.

“Car’s still in the driveway, but I doubt he just went for a walk,” says Jack. “Brown must still have the night guard’s vehicle, or at least he did at the time.”

“Jack, this…it doesn’t really look like a struggle,” Zeller says with reluctance, wary of stating outright what it does look like. He’s been wrong about Will Graham before, and he’d like to think he’s wrong about this too.

“What’s that?” asks Jack, pointing out a cracked glass left on one of the nightstands.

Zeller lifts it carefully with a gloved hand to take a closer look. “Could be something Jimmy will want to take a look at in the lab,” he agrees readily, relieved to find a clue that could cast doubt on the obvious scenario.

“Bag it, and let’s keep poking around. Call someone to wrangle up the dogs,” he says. Alana probably won’t need convincing to take them on again, despite the tension between her and Will lately, but in the meantime he just needs them safely out of the way so they can’t contaminate the scene more than they likely already have. “Can we get a trace on Will’s phone?” he adds without much hope. There’s no way Brown or—god forbid— _Will_ if he actually left under his own power, would be that sloppy.

“I’ll text Bowman,” says Zeller.

The crunch of gravel in the driveway makes Jack peek through the blinds outside, hand cautiously hovering over the gun at his hip. He lets his hand drop away harmlessly when he sees whose vehicle is outside, stepping outside without a word to Zeller, a resigned look on his face.

_“Jack!”_ Alana shouts as she swings her legs out of the car, a woman at once near-broken and terrified as well as unspeakably angry to see Jack here perfectly alive and well. “I’ve been trying to reach you. I’ve been trying to reach _anyone._ No one will return my calls. I suppose you’re all here then,” she says with a touch of bitterness. _Shutting me out as usual,_ she telegraphs quite clearly without saying it aloud.

“Now Alana,” says Jack, halting her at the bottom of the steps with a gentle hand on her shoulder before she can make to enter the house. “I’m gonna need you to remain very calm when I say this, but I can’t let you inside at the moment.” She freezes in place as he says this, taking in his careful tone with widening eyes. “Will is missing. We have no reason to believe he’s been hurt, but until we know more about what’s happened here, I’m treating this as a crime scene.”

_“Oh god,”_ she says, mind racing to a dozen possible scenarios and few of them anything good. Taking a moment to collect herself, she asks, “Do you think wherever he is, Hannibal might be with him? I tried calling both of them, but Hannibal’s phone just went to voicemail.”

“I have people looking in on him too,” he assures her. “In fact, let me check in with them right now and we’ll see how it’s going on their end,” he adds, pulling out his phone. If he finds it interesting that Alana’s instincts would be to check on Will first despite their estrangement when Hannibal is also not returning her calls, he doesn’t comment on it. She does live closer to Will, after all, as he’s sure she would remind him if he did bring it up.

“Chief Bridges,” he says as soon as the man answers, “has someone been dispatched to Doctor Lecter’s office yet?” He hums noncommittally at the other man’s response. “And what about his home? I see,” he answers. “Please do that. We haven’t been able to reach him yet. Yes, I’ll keep you updated. Thank you, Chief.”

“He’s not there,” Alana says softly as soon as he hangs up.

“His Bentley isn’t in his driveway or his office parking lot, but neither location looks like there’s been any kind of disturbance. Bridges has standing officers at both to intercept him when he arrives. They think it’s likely just bad timing and he’s out on errands right now.” The look in his eyes makes it clear that he’s just as uncertain about that assessment as she is.

Before they can decide where that leaves them, Zeller steps out, waving his phone in the air and speaking animatedly, “Boss, Lloyd pinpointed Will’s phone. It’s only twenty miles north of here.”

They pile quickly into the SUV, Jack not wasting the time to protest when Alana gets behind the wheel of her own car with clear intent to follow.

“Stop here,” Zeller tells him at one point abruptly, the long stretch of road they are on surrounded by nothing but forest for miles.

“This is the middle of nowhere, Zee,” says Jack, pulling over nonetheless at the younger man’s insistence that this is where the signal is coming from.

“Phone must have been ditched,” Zee says as they step out, Alana pulling up shortly behind them. “Probably just tossed it right out the window,” he adds irritably, resigning himself now to trudging through trees and snow to find the damn thing.

“Maybe not,” says Alana, pointing in the direction of a particularly dense set of trees. Jack has to squint to see what she’s looking at—a rusted out old truck blanketed under layers of snow and ice.

“You should stay up here in your car,” Jack says as he and Zeller start making the trek over there.

“Like hell,” she answers from only a few feet behind. Jack doesn’t argue further.

The windows are too frosted over to see through, but the door opens with surprising ease despite most of the truck being frozen over, as though it had been pried open in a similar fashion recently.

The sight inside is enough to make all three of them reel back in surprise. Alana gasps loudly. “Oh my god, _Hannibal!”_

“No, no, probably not! Here, look,” Zee quickly interjects, trying to reassure her by gesturing at the severed leg he thinks is the sole cause of her distress. “See these marks here? Not recent. Plus the thing’s obviously been frozen for awhile. If I had to guess the timeline just eyeballing it, I’d say the likeliest match would be Abel Gideon.” His eyebrows pull together and he looks back at Jack as he adds, “Which actually doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, considering both Will Graham and Matthew Brown were in jail at the time of Gideon’s murder, and Chilton’s house was checked top to bottom after his arrest. We never found either of the legs.” It had been assumed that he ate both of them.

Jack doesn’t comment right away, choosing instead to reach in carefully with a gloved hand to pick up Will’s phone resting in the seat beside the leg. Underneath it is a folded sheet of thin white paper, carelessly torn from what was likely a very expensive sketchpad, which he gingerly takes as well.

Alana does not respond either, gaze focused intently on the beautifully painted canvas propped elegantly against the back of the seat, like a lovely backdrop placed _just so_ in order to tie together the whole charming scene.

“That’s, um, hang on, I know this one from an art and mythology class I took in college,” says Zeller. “It’s uh...”

_“Leda and the Swan,”_ says Alana softly.

“That’s it!” he says, pointing at her with a snap of his fingers. His enthusiasm wanes when he sees her back away from the truck, her expression blank and unwavering before she turns where they can’t see her face.

Beside him, Jack delicately unfolds the note. The short, huffed-out laugh he lets out could rival one of Will’s in terms of bitterness and utter lack of amusement. “Son of a bitch.”

“What’s it say?” Zeller asks him. Jack hands it to him wordlessly. The handwriting isn’t one that Zee recognizes, so he assumes it must be Brown’s as he reads aloud, _“Have you been to his basement yet?’_ ” He looks back up at Jack. “Whose basement, Chilton’s?”

“No,” says Jack firmly, eyeing the painting Alana was staring at a moment before. “Not Chilton’s.” He grabs his phone out of his pocket once more and dials. “Chief Bridges, this is Jack Crawford again. Are your boys still out at Lecter’s house?” He barely pauses a moment before barreling on. “Good. Listen, I’m sending some of my agents to meet with them there, but in the meantime I need your officers to lock the place down and treat it as a crime scene. Yes, I damn well do have probable cause,” he adds with a note of agitation. “Tell your officers if they go in before my agents arrive not to touch anything and proceed with extreme caution, especially downstairs.” With that, he hangs up and immediately makes other calls to Jimmy and the rest of the bureau.

A sound like a quiet sob pulls Zee’s attention away from his boss and back to Dr. Bloom. Alana is standing away from the scene with her back to both of them, one hand leaning against the nearest tree to support her while the other appears from this angle to be clutched tightly over her mouth. He listens but doesn’t hear more crying, although there is a tiny shake to her shoulders that suggests she isn’t quite ready to turn around and face them both just yet.

Guiltily, he looks away and starts formally processing the evidence before Jack can bark at him to get it done.

*

Awareness returns gradually, in the sound of tires crunching against asphalt and in the morning light just bright enough to spear through closed eyelids. For a few precious seconds before understanding fully dawns and his eyes open, he can almost imagine that the cool glass his forehead is resting against is the window of his father’s beat-up old Chevy, and he is just stirring from his nap on yet another long road trip across the country to the next job at the next harbor.

Any minute now his dad will say, _“Now I don’t know how long this job will last, kiddo, but I’m real hopeful this time we’ll be able to settle in for a lot longer and I can get you enrolled in a proper school again. Kid your age and with how smart you are, you need a real education, no more of this home learning.”_ And Will will smile and nod and secretly thank whatever deity is looking out for him that this is the one promise his father has never been able to keep, because the last thing Will wants is to be surrounded by other people all day.

He knows without opening his eyes that this is not his father’s Chevy, however. That old thing was scrapped almost decades ago now somewhere along the Georgia coastline, just a few years before his father passed, and the smells are all wrong anyway. Instead of old engine grease and fish scales and their elderly mutt Charlie, this smells like generic pine car freshener and old coffee, intermingled faintly with the scent of dried blood.

His eyes spring open at the realization and he sits up suddenly, vision somewhat blurry but clear enough to tell that this is not a stretch of highway he’s familiar with, the road ahead mostly empty of other cars. There is a dull headache throbbing just around his temples, easily ignorable by a man just a little too used to the sensation of mild hangovers, though this is not quite the same.

_“There he is,”_ says a familiar voice beside him. Will blinks and turns his head to look at the man in the driver’s seat, or at least the blurry outline of him, though he doesn’t need to see the other to recognize him. “You were out for awhile. Probably one reason why mixing alcohol with benzos isn’t exactly recommended,” he says, tone light and playful enough that Will can hear the smirk without seeing it.

“Matthew,” he says hoarsely, frustratedly reaching up with his _—bound?—_ hands to remove his contacts since they’re obviously more of a hindrance than a help at this point.

“Sorry, I probably shouldn’t have let you sleep with those in,” says Matt. “Here,” he adds, handing him a small teal blue object that turns out to be his own contact case. Will forestalls asking the obvious questions— _Where am I? Why are you here? Why in the hell do you have this?—_ in favor of concentrating on not poking himself in the eye or dropping one of the lenses, a considerably impressive feat for a man with bound hands in a moving car who just woke from a drug-induced blackout.

His vision clears a bit without the itchy, uncomfortable lenses obscuring it, well enough that he can make out the shape of his folded glasses in Matthew’s shirt pocket. Matthew keeps one hand on the steering wheel and uses the right to pull them out and hold them, gripping the tip of each stem between his teeth to gently prise them open, casual and nonchalant as though this strangely intimate gesture is an everyday occurrence and not the first time he’s ever done this for Will.

“C’mere,” Matt says, and Will realizes with another strange lurch in his chest that Matthew intends to _put them on him_ instead of just handing them to him like the case. He turns his head more and leans left almost without meaning to, and after a quick glance ahead to make sure the road is clear and straight, Matthew slides them on gently over his ears, fingers brushing lightly against the side of Will’s face and his curls.

Will jerks away from his hand as if stung and averts his own attention back to the road ahead of them, vision crisp and clear as it should be now. _I don’t like to be touched,_ he wants to say, though whether in reproach or apology he’s unsure—he supposes that would have to depend on which of them the lie is for.

The younger man shifts his focus back to the road as well, and the two of them continue for a bit in silence, Will keeping an eye out for road signs and other markers to tell him where they are.

“What’s going on?” he asks finally. In his peripheral, he sees the other man shrug offhandedly.

“Oh, y’know, looked like you could use a vacation so I thought, ‘Why not a road trip?’”

Will turns to look at him fully now, and realizes the black button-down shirt Matthew is wearing is actually the top half of one of the guard uniforms at BSHCI. He eyes the gruesome stain on the man’s shirt collar, easily visible in these close quarters, and realizes he doesn’t have to guess where the smell of old blood is coming from either. “Looks like you went to a lot of trouble just to take us sight-seeing.”

Again, Matthew shrugs. “It’s really not as hard to break out of facilities like that as they want you to believe,” he says with the authority of someone well-versed in the matter.

Will clenches his jaw tightly. “I understand there’s no going back for you at this point, Matthew, but I’m not done in Baltimore yet. If you won’t take me back, then drop me off somewhere. _Now.”_

Matthew raises a single unimpressed eyebrow at Will’s commanding tone and says, “What for? Lecter? No point in that, babe, he’s long gone by now.”

Will goes deathly still at this pronouncement. “What do you mean _gone?_ Why would he _go_ anywhere?” he asks with dangerous calm.

“Because I told him he should. Guy with his wealth and means, I’m sure he’s farther from Maryland than we are by now. He’s probably out of the country already.”

“What the _hell,_ Matt!” he shouts.

_“What the hell, Will?”_ Matthew throws right back, raising his own voice for the first time. “I saw your work yesterday,” he continues, voice tense and darting his eyes over to meet Will’s, all trace of his previous carefree façade completely erased. “Care to tell me at what point you decided entrapping him meant playing right into his _fucking hands?”_

Will laughs, an ugly well of resentment bubbling up to the surface. He feels betrayed all over again, this time from the last source he ever expected. “I did exactly what I needed to in order to lure him out. I thought you understood that,” he says bitterly.

“I do underst—”

“And this?” Will cuts him off, lifting his cuffed hands in front of him. He could break out of them if he tried, as Matthew is no doubt aware, but that’s hardly the point. “What, don’t you trust me anymore, _babe?”_ he asks, sneering.

A look flits across Matthew’s face, something a bit guilty and sad as he says, “About as much as you trust me right now.”

Will turns his face away again, surprised and struck by how much hearing that actually _hurts._ He swallows. “That’s…fair,” he says finally, and Matthew winces.

The silence stretches uncomfortably between them for a few minutes afterwards until Matthew speaks up again. “I wasn’t sure how you would react when you woke up,” he says. “I’ll take them off as soon as we need to stop somewhere.” Which will be soon, he thinks, since someone certainly must have discovered the bodies by now. They need to ditch this car as quickly as possible, and he needs to change his clothes, maybe get them both something to eat before hitting the road again.

“Oh, do you _trust_ me enough for that?”

“Not as much as I want to,” he answers honestly, making it Will’s turn to flinch. “But I’m hoping you still trust me enough at least not to run off or turn me in at the first opportunity.”

“And if I can’t promise that?”

Matthew just sighs resignedly instead of answering, and Will feels bad enough for asking that he says, “Okay, fine, I won’t run. For now. And I’m _not_ going to turn you in either.” He seems annoyed that the younger man would even suggest it, and Matthew gives him a soft smile. It’s enough for the moment.

Will shifts in his seat. “I’m sure this isn’t quite the reunion you had planned in your head,” he says, not quite an accusation or an apology.

Matthew snorts softly. “As if I would ever expect you to be anything less than what you are,” he replies, lips curling up higher into a closer semblance of his usual smirk.

Will sits pensively, not entirely sure how he’s meant to take that remark. He says nothing as Matthew leaves the highway at the next exit, presumably to stop as he said they would.

He has no idea what to feel about any of this yet, or what he should do now that his plans have been disrupted, and so resigns himself to passively going along with whatever this is for the time being until he figures it out.

All he knows in this moment is that he wants to get out and stretch his legs, and then he is owed a _damn good explanation_ from Matthew for everything he’s worked for that has been lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can we all agree that the _Leda and the Swan_ painting in Hannibal's dining room is practically a character of its own on the show? :D (Although sadly, probably not one we'll ever see again except in flashbacks.)
> 
> I'm not too pleased with the underwhelming ending to this chapter, but I was too pressed for time to be able to include everything I wanted to. :( Oh well, that means the next chapter will have plenty of better stuff to look forward to!
> 
> _~~Aww, look at those boys having their first fight. Isn't it precious? ;)~~_


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ~~This chapter is insanely short and unsatisfying and I got stuck a million times and it took me _two freaking months_ to put this out, ugh, someone punch me _in the face._~~ Writer's block is a bitch, y'all.
> 
> I had planned to add a short scene showing what Hannibal's up to at the moment, but I decided to save that for the next chapter. Hey, something to look forward to, right? Dx

They luck out in the back of a giant megastore parking lot, the kind with cameras that never seem to work and are always pointed at the wrong places strategically, pulling up right next to an abandoned old Volvo with rust spots in the paint. Despite the ‘For Sale’ sign gathering dust in the back windshield, complete with a phone number scrawled across the bottom of it, it’s clear the owners have not come back to check on it in a long time and probably couldn’t care less what happens to it now. Will is surprised to find no parts missing and everything still in working order despite the amount of time it was probably left idle when he checks under the hood.

It’ll probably fall to pieces sooner rather than later out on the road, but at least it’ll put some distance between them and the stolen vehicle of the murdered prison guard first. Matthew moves quickly while Will is looking over the engine, shrugging out of the bloodied uniform top in the cab of the guard’s car and pulling on one of Will’s button-ups instead before transferring everything else over. The ‘For Sale’ sign goes in the trunk of the Volvo along with the overnight bags and supplies brought from Will’s house.

The practiced ease with which Matthew has the car fully unlocked and hot-wired within minutes tells Will more about the man’s past than most of their conversations spanned over the last several months combined. It occurs to him now that despite everything they’ve been through together, the moments they’ve shared and the parts of themselves that have been laid bare for one another, in many ways the man sitting beside Will is still a stranger.

It isn’t until they’re pretty far along the road again—Will still has no idea where they’re going, only that they’ve foregone the highway for now in favor of back roads with fewer cars on them—and finishing off the last of a quick breakfast bought with cash at a McDonald’s drive-thru before he finally breaks the silence between them once more.

“So, what’s your plan?” he asks.

“Don’t have one,” Matthew answers cheerfully. “Just making it up as I go.”

“I really hope you’re joking.”

“Alright, yeah, you’ve got me. I painstakingly organized every detail and wrote out a full schedule of events in chalk on the floor of my cell. You should have seen it, you would have been impressed. There were graphs. Pie charts.”

Will breathes in deeply through his nose. Counts to three. Breathes out again. “You know, you’re not as funny as you think you are.”

“Honestly, the most important thing on my mind was breaking out of the hospital and getting you the hell away from your scary ex. I hadn’t planned much further than that, no.” For all that his tone and demeanor are playful for the moment, Will can still detect a hint of the flinty edge that had crept into his voice earlier. Good. Will doesn’t want to be only one who still feels volatile right now.

He realizes with a cool and detached clarity that he has never seen Matthew truly angry before. He wants to fix that. He wants to see it. How else will he really get to know who he’s dealing with here?

“Let me guess, this is the part where you tell me, ‘Don’t worry, babe, it’ll all work out somehow,’ and we waltz off into the sunset, get married, adopt a dozen children, and all live _happily_ ever after,” he says with as much scorn and condescension as he can muster.

The look Matthew levels his way says he knows he’s being baited, though he isn’t sure why or to what end. “I wonder if you even know how much of that is just you fucking with me and how much of it is actually something that you want.”

“What I _want,”_ Will says, turning in his seat to face him now, “is to see Hannibal Lecter pay for his crimes. You took that away from me, Matthew.”

“Is it what you want though?” Matthew asks quietly, almost as if it’s more of an aside to himself than a question directed at Will. “Would locking him up really have been enough for you? Even if it was, do you really believe for one second that a prison exists that could hold someone like him forever? They couldn’t even keep someone like me for very long, and I’m just some dumb orderly who doesn’t even have a college degree,” he quips. “He’s _at least_ as clever as I am.”

“Oh, I see, so you were just trying to _help_ me, is that you want me to believe? No, I don’t buy that.” He can see it more clearly now, the right words to say to set the man off. He allows a cold smirk to grace his lips as he leans closer and says, “Because you know what I think, Matthew? I think no matter how much you try to justify it to yourself or to me, the truth is you were just _jealous.”_

Matthew’s eyes are back on the road as he says this, but he sees how the younger man’s fingers curl reflexively around the wheel for a moment before loosening their grip. Will wonders if this is how a wolf feels when it scents its prey in the air and knows that its victory is near.

“I bet it kept you up at nights, didn’t it?” he continues blithely. “Poor Matty, all alone in his cell and wondering about me, thinking about where I was and _who_ I was with. Imagining _all_ the things we must have been doing together,” he says, purposely letting his voice drawl over the last statement suggestively. “Poor pitiful little boy with his sad, _pathetic_ little one-sided crush...”

The car swerves violently enough that Will is flung back against his seat. It takes a moment for him to realize that they aren’t crashing, that Matthew has pulled off to the side of the road and taken off his seat belt, and there is not another car in sight, just miles of trees around them on either side. It occurs to him now that he may have pushed too far, that he is locked in the car with a dangerous murderer and that perhaps poking said murderer to try and get him to bite back is not the smartest move he could have made.

“Matt...” he starts to say, raising his hands up in front of himself, heart pounding in his chest, frozen between trying to apologize, readying to defend himself, or preparing to fling himself out of the car and run as far out into the woods as he can get.

As it happens, he has time to do none of these things before the other man is leaning forward, one hand digging into his bicep hard enough to bruise while the other fists tightly into his curls, strong arms yanking him closer before another mouth suddenly collides with his own.

Will gasps in shock and the other wastes no time plundering his mouth with his tongue, teeth clacking together almost painfully. There is no finesse here and _nothing_ tame or controlled about this.

That’s about the last coherent thought Will has before his brain shuts off for awhile, mind reduced to little more than a static hum in the background as sensation and instinct start to take over. His focus narrows to guttural moans and distant growls that either one of them could be making at this point to be honest, to the way his glasses have been knocked askew and are digging painfully into his face, though not enough for either of them to stop, to his own seat belt constricting tightly enough against his throat to make it difficult to breathe.

It’s the need to breathe that forces them apart eventually, both of them pulling away from each other with reluctance. Matthew fixes Will’s glasses back into place, using it as an excuse to lean forward for one last nip at Will’s swollen, abused lips.

The younger man huffs out a breath of laughter as he starts to pull away again, and Will blinks owlishly at the sound. He realizes dimly that his own fingers are still twisted tightly around Matthew’s shirt and carefully lets go, leaning back slowly as the rest of his senses catch up with him.

Matthew grins, lazy and satisfied. _“One-sided,_ he says.” His voice is pleasantly hoarse and raspy now after what they’ve just done. Will blushes as the words hit home, his fingers reaching up to brush against his own reddened lips self-consciously.

Matthew pulls his seat belt back on and puts the car back in gear. Will turns to stare out the car window, unable to look at the other man for now, lost in a daze and trying to figure out how his quiet, lonely life in the countryside transformed into something so complicated and beyond his control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor baby Will, it's not his fault his curls are so lovely and tempting and all the boys wanna tangle their fingers in it and tug on it and find out what noises he makes. _(Oh wait, yes, yes it is. Shame on you, Will. You brought this on yourself.)_


	7. Chapter 7

The fare provided by the airline is barely adequate enough to pass as edible, even in first class, but fortunately for him the stopover in Versailles allows for plenty of time to grab a quick snack before it is time to reboard the plane.

It is a pity that he does not have his equipment or even the luxury of a hotel kitchenette during his brief jaunt into the city, but France is not to be his final destination and it would be unwise to draw too much attention to his usual pastimes while he is here. He left quite the impression here already in his youth, though that is certainly nothing to the reputation he will have in America by the time everything left behind in his basement is brought to light by the likes of Miss Lounds and others of her breed.

During the flight, he had considered the possibility of visiting with a few old acquaintances but had ultimately decided against it. His sudden reappearance would likely be unwelcome and therefore rather impolite considering the circumstances in which he left this country. Moreover, there simply is not time for it at the moment. It is an idea he will perhaps revisit once he is better established in his new chosen homestead. He wonders what these acquaintances would make of Will, or he of them, should the younger man be back in his domain by that time.

It is with Will in mind, as he finishes the last of his bisque, that he decides to follow the rude young tourist from Australia who had berated his waiter for not immediately coming to refill his glass before he had even finished setting it back on his table. While he does not need to draw undue attention to himself whilst he is here, some calculated risk is necessary for his plans after all. He can hardly expect the empath to pick up on his trail if he does not leave breadcrumbs for him to follow.

Part of the risk is that others may be able to pick up on the clues as well, but it is one that he must take. The key here is not to make the presentation so ostentatious as to be immediately detectible as his by the authorities, while still leaving enough of his signature mark that Will will be able to recognize it even given the limited amount of information that is likely to be reported on the news.

He follows the man on soft, sure footsteps, confident and well-familiar enough with these streets despite the years that have passed since he last walked them.

It is a simple exercise really, to catch the drunk lout unawares with nothing more than a swift blow to the back of the head in an alleyway where no one can see. He would prefer the man awake and screaming, but he must make do with what time and his current resources will allow. A modest exhibition, but one with a level of creativity and grace that his dear empath can appreciate.

He works efficiently, some of his favorite compositions echoing along the corridors of his mind palace in an eerie harmony that would be impossible to achieve in reality as he does, and is back on the plane with time to spare and not a wrinkle in his clothing or a hair out of place. A pity he could not salvage any choice parts of the man to bring along for the rest of the trip, but again he reminds himself that there will be time for that later.

Leaning back in his seat, he closes his eyes, takes a sip of his champagne, and waits for them to take off once more.

*

Jack considers the images of the body they found in the medical storage room once again and asks himself why he didn’t retire and whisk Bella away somewhere romantic for his remaining months with her while he had the chance.

The other two guards were dispatched with Spartan efficiency and little dramatic flair, their deaths nothing more than a pragmatic means to an end that Jack shudders to realize he actually finds somewhat refreshing, considering his line of work. The third one was not so lucky. There, Brown’s sadism had showed. Whereas the other two had been killed almost mercifully quick, that one’s tongue had been cut out and stuffed down his throat, and he had been left to choke to death slowly on his own muscle and blood. Jack wonders idly what this one had done to piss him off, but at this point it hardly matters.

The hospital staff has been overwhelmingly uncooperative and unhelpful throughout the investigation, from the twitchy, stuttering nurse who called 911 that morning only after his shift ended, having no clue what had happened in the night or why none of the guards had come to check up on him until he found the body cooling in the guard station on his way out the door, to the interim director blustering and stumbling his way through excuses on why security routines hadn’t been tightened or altered in any way following his appointment. Jack never thought he would meet someone more incompetent at that job than Chilton, but clearly he was wrong on that point.

Prurnell has even shared with him privately that there is now talk of closing the hospital altogether and transferring the remaining inmates to other facilities, since it has become increasingly obvious to the state that BSHCI is abysmally poor at keeping its promises of containing them safely. Jack could care less about that at the moment, though he privately agrees with the assessment.

He is more annoyed by the fact that none of the employees working that day seemed to have any clue that Brown was planning anything or any insight into why he would choose that day to initiate his escape. He knows it has to be linked to Randall Tier’s murder—there’s no way the timing of it could possibly be a coincidence—but he has no idea how the man even found out about that. Someone obviously must have told him but now refuses to come forward, trying to cover their own asses.

Jack sighs and rubs his hand over his eyes. It hardly matters anymore _how_ Brown learned about it, only that he did and that it led him to go straight after Will. After a quick pitstop at Doctor Lecter’s residence, of course.

He supposes they should feel vindicated by the orgy of evidence discovered in Lecter’s basement, tying him inextricably to multiple murders by both the Chesapeake Ripper and the Copycat Killer and thus proving Will was right all along, but it’s a hollow victory with the man himself now at large and their star witness/ex-profiler missing as well.

Zeller and Price both had been visibly relieved to find traces of benzodiazepines in the glass they bagged for evidence, suggesting that Will had _not_ left his house under his own power, then immediately shame-faced as they realized what they were actually relieved about. Either way, Jack worries about the man. They have APBs out, but he has the sinking feeling that nothing good is going to come of their searching any time soon.

Alana, he knows, is barely holding herself together in light of everything that’s happened and what they’ve discovered about Hannibal, but she puts on a brave front that Jack can’t help but admire her for, especially in the face of leeches like Freddie Lounds clamoring for interviews with the woman they are already now dubbing as “Satan’s mistress.” He feels guilty imagining what this will mean for her personal life, not to mention her career. He feels guilty about a lot of things, lately.

She takes the dogs back again without even asking. No one dares try to stop her. At this point, she needs them as much as they need her, if not more so.

“Winston doesn’t try to run back to the house like he used to,” she tells Jack in passing when he asks about them. Jack wants Will to come back safe, sane, and sound. He doesn’t want to read into her words the way she clearly has, judging by the puffy redness under her eyes which he politely ignores. He does it anyway.

He has never felt more like a failure in his entire life than in this moment. Some anchor he’s turned out to be. Maybe it’s time to reconsider his retirement after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the second half of this chapter is so depressing, but I can't help but think about what the fallout would be like for everyone else. And can you imagine what Alana's life is going to be like starting season 3 (assuming she lives to see it)? Yikes. I'm shuddering inside for my poor baby girl already. :(


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is astoundingly soon for another update on the same story for me (as anyone who is familiar with my usual pace and pattern of writing already knows) and there is a reason for that. As you may have noticed, there is now a finite number of chapters left to this story. Eight down, three to go...and next chapter is the BIG ONE. The one where it finally happens.
> 
> Knowing exactly how close we are to the end here now, I've decided to devote myself entirely to finishing this story up as soon as possible (to the neglect of my other stories for now) so you guys aren't kept waiting too long for the end. I hope to have chapters 9 and 10 both complete in the next few days, and I'll be posting them both at the same time. Chapter 11 (the epilogue) to follow possibly a day or two later, depending on how fast I can type it up.
> 
> I mean it when I say that I love all three of these boys. Killing one of them off in the next chapter is going to _DESTROY ME,_ but it has to be done. I just hope you can forgive me if the one who dies happens to be your fave. :( Considering they're all my faves, I hope you understand that I don't do it out of spite or because I love that one any less than the other two, because that's simply not true.
> 
> This has been an incredible journey, you guys. I am staggered and touched by all the amazing, beautiful responses this series has gotten since it began. I hope you'll be willing to stick it out with me to the very end, even if that end doesn't turn out to be the one you wanted when you started reading this fic. I know for me, it's going to be hard letting this story go, but all good things must have an end. I am not exaggerating when I say that I cried about 20 times while writing this chapter and had to stop several times because I couldn't see the computer screen anymore, and I will probably cry many more times throughout writing the last three chapters as well, because I am an emotional train wreck who gets way too attached to fictional characters.
> 
> And now, with the longest pre-chapter note I've ever written out of the way...welcome, ladies and gents, to Chapter Eight. :')

Days blur together until he’s almost not sure how long they’ve been on the run. It feels like there’s hardly time to think, to stop and breathe, in spite of the fact that that’s literally all there should be time for—nothing but long drives across state lines and restless nights in motel rooms that always look exactly the same no matter where they go.

Oftentimes they have to share a bed because it’s far less conspicuous if only one of them goes inside and asks for a room for one. Not once has Matthew tried anything since that searing kiss on their first morning, however. Will doesn’t know if he’s relieved by that or disappointed.

There is still a distance between them that he isn’t sure how to cross and even less sure how much he wants to try. He misses the ease of their conversations at the prison and the connection that had been forged there. It had been far easier in a lot of ways reconnecting with Hannibal once he got out—but then again, he actually _had_ been trying with Hannibal and even that was, at least partially, a lie on his end. He has no reason to force himself to fake it with Matthew as he had to sometimes—too _few_ times—with Hannibal. He isn’t trying to manipulate the younger man. He’s not so sure the same can be said in reverse, but that’s only because he’s lost his ability to trust anyone about anything anymore.

Regardless, there is no going back now. Matthew was right about one thing—he needs to see this thing with Hannibal through to the end, whatever end that may be, and that’s not going to be possible if he turns back now and submits himself to endless scrutiny and hearings on the legal path to tracking the other man down. He may never get close enough at all that way. Matthew is his best bet for getting there.

They are making their way quickly but carefully to the coast now. He knows now what the plan is, and it’s something almost ludicrously simple. There will be entirely too much security at any airport for them to try to leave the country that way. Cruise ships, on the other hand, are generally far more lax and unlikely to be as on guard for a pair of fugitives making their way to one of the Caribbean islands. From there, it shouldn’t be difficult to find a plane to take them to Europe.

They’ll still need passports, of course, but Matthew assures him it’s not as difficult to obtain fake ones as most people assume it is and that he already has that step well in hand. Will knows how frightfully easy it is for someone determined and resourceful enough to get away with a lot of things thanks to his time with the FBI, even if ID forgeries and similar crimes were never his particular areas of expertise. He wonders though, as he has done before, about Matthew’s knowledge on these sorts of things.

“Lots of time in the system,” Matthew handwaves when Will does finally take it upon himself to ask. “You get to know a few things, get to know certain types of people, learn to recognize those types of people in other places and where to find them, and how to ask for what you need.”

It both perfectly answers several of Will’s questions without going into too much detail about any of them, and raises several more all at once. It’s not the first time Matthew has referenced hard time, his stays in hospitals like BSHCI, or shown a surprising level of expertise in the art of evading authorities or getting out of facilities like that in less-than-legal ways whenever he is caught. It’s also not the first time he’s noticed the practiced way Matthew steals, breaks into cars, talks his way out of trouble or suspicion, navigates backroads he’s never even been on almost as well as any local, and avoids police roadblocks without seeming like he’s trying to, as if he recognizes all of the patterns and knows exactly how to stay invisible and below anyone’s radar. He’s a man practically born to be ever on the move, and Will would almost wonder what it is that kept him in Baltimore for so long in the first place if he didn’t already know the answer.

“Who are you really?” slips quietly past his lips before he can stop the words from forming, staring straight ahead so he doesn’t have to see the other man’s reaction to them, using the fact that he’s the one behind the wheel this time and needs to keep his focus on the road as an excuse not to look.

“Huh?” Matthew utters, so much genuine confusion in that one syllable that Will risks it and sneaks a glance at him. The expression on Matthew’s face seems almost impossibly innocent and lost. That doesn’t mean Will isn’t right though, only that it’s a question he hadn’t expected Will to ask. “What do you mean?”

_“Matthew Brown,”_ Will drawls with a smile on his lips, eyes back on the road again. It’s so obvious now that he really thinks about it. How had he missed it before? “It’s no ‘John Smith’ but still...such a common, forgettable name,” he says.

In his peripheral, he sees the other man shift subtly in his seat, straightening his back as he catches on to Will’s meaning. “Lots of people have common, forgettable names,” he says carefully.

“Hm, they do,” Will agrees. “Sort of proves my point. And you know, I had thought to myself before that even Chilton couldn’t be so incompetent as to hire an employee without first checking their background. Surely he would have noticed a criminal record?” Or a record of time spent living in facilities like the very one Matthew applied to work for. _‘You spend time at a mental hospital, you learn to pick up the drill to pass as an orderly...they may never know you were in.’_ That had been almost exactly Matthew’s words to him when they spoke for the first time, hadn’t it? He wasn’t even trying to hide the truth from Will even back then, merely omitting a few details really.

Matthew sighs, relaxing back into his seat with a smile. “Okay, you got me. This isn’t exactly my first rodeo, no.”

“So...what’s your real name?”

“Matthew Brown.”

Will grips his fingers tightly around the wheel and wills himself not to scream in frustration. Why does this man who apparently likes him so much seem to live for irritating the hell out of him sometimes? “Matthew,” he says, tone clipped, “please try to understand where I’m coming from by asking. I’m throwing everything else I know out the window to flee the country with a _wanted murderer_ and I don’t even know what to _call him.”_

“You just did,” Matthew argues. “Is it the name on my original birth certificate? No, but who cares about that? It’s not even the same as the one on my first forged certificate, or the second, or the third...”

_“Jesus,”_ Will breathes out shakily, only one hand still on the wheel while the other comes up to rub over his mouth. “How many...no, never mind. I don’t think I wanna know.”

Matthew sighs again, rubbing his hand over his face. “Look, I...I don’t really like talking about my life before, you know, any more than you like talking about your past either. But you know me. You know everything about who I am that actually matters.”

“Do I though?” Will asks softly. “I need to know, is it...is it really that easy for you to just burn everything down and start over every time you feel like moving on?”

“Not anymore,” Matthew answers quietly, staring down at his hands in his lap contemplatively. He frowns. “Wait, why are you even asking me like that? Are you afraid I’m—”

“Going to light a match and set me on fire the way you did Andy Sykes and every other bridge you’ve burned the moment things get too hard or you decide you’re bored of me? A little bit now, yeah,” Will says, laughing humorlessly.

“Jesus Christ, baby, _no!”_ exclaims Matthew, utterly horrified. “I love you goddammit, how could you even think that... _shit,”_ he mutters, burying his face in his hands. Of _course_ Will would think something like that after what he just heard, it only makes logical sense to think Matthew would consider him just as disposable as everyone else in his life, right? Lecter would, if it came down to it.

He seems wrapped up enough in his own worry about how he’s going to reassure Will that he’s not going to ditch him or kill him that he appears not to notice the way Will stiffens in his own seat, knuckles turning white in their grip around the wheel. Will wonders if the younger man even realizes the other thing he just said, or if he thinks it’s such an obvious given, even though this is the first time such words have been uttered aloud, that he hasn’t considered how they might now be echoing themselves on repeat in Will’s head, bouncing and ricocheting cacophonously off the walls of his skull.

“Okay,” Matt says, lifting his head up and dropping his hands back to his lap. “You want to understand what I was like before a little better and listen to me explain exactly why that is _not_ something that’s going to happen? Fine.” He rolls his shoulders back. “Before you knew me, I was just some dumb, impulsive, overgrown kid,” he says, rolling his eyes.

“Still are,” Will mutters, willing his hands to loosen their grip around the wheel as he tries to look and sound like he isn’t still silently freaking out.

“Shut up,” Matt says, smiling crookedly. “I did a lot of stupid shit, got in a lot of fights, that sort of thing. And yes, I got bored easily,” he admits. “I didn’t really care about anything, so I drifted a lot. Did some good things for people I liked and bad things to the ones I didn’t, but mostly I just left them alone if they didn’t bother with me first. I never really got...attached to anyone, so it was always easy to pick up and go whenever I felt like it was time to move on. If that doesn’t sound like it was much of a life, that’s because it wasn’t.” He shrugs. “To be honest though, I never really noticed, so it didn’t bother me.”

“It must have been nice to have that kind of freedom all the time.” He can relate a little, remembering the constant moving with his dad and the opportunity that presented to get away from everyone who knew him as “that one crazy kid,” however short the relief a new place offered. Even after he’d gotten settled into his life in Wolf Trap, there were still some bad days before he started working with the BAU when he would consider dropping his dogs off with one of the neighbors that usually didn’t mind watching them, packing a suitcase, and just taking off somewhere. He doubts it would even have surprised anyone if he’d ever actually gone through with it.

“I thought so too,” Matt says. “Until I was reading this shitty crime blog one day and the woman writing it kept going on and on about this ‘psychopath who catches other psychopaths.’ I read between the lines and I understood that what she was actually saying was that this guy could see people for who they really were and understand anybody, even freaks and weirdos like me,” he quips wryly. “And I got curious.”

“You...I thought you were interested in me at first because you thought I’d done the copycat killings,” Will says, biting his lip.

“I was curious about those too,” Matthew admits. “But I didn’t know if you really did them or not at that point, and it didn’t really matter to me. What mattered was that it gave me an opportunity to meet you finally. I applied to work at the hospital the day I found out they were putting you there.”

Will snorts. “Guess I have to take back what I said earlier. Chilton really _is_ that incompetent if he thought that timing was a coincidence.” Matthew shrugs again, grinning.

“Actually seeing you there for the first time though, listening to you talk even though it wasn’t me you were speaking to,” he says, voice trailing lowly to almost a whisper. Will glances over at him again, fingers tightening around the wheel once more, before he swallows and looks away. “It’s gonna sound fucking clichéd, I know, I don’t have the same way with words that you do but...” Matthew fidgets, seeming to actually get nervous now about what he’s going to say. “It was like I was seeing the world in shades of grey my whole life and I didn’t even know it, until there you were and suddenly there were colors everywhere. Like every pointless, meaningless moment in my life actually made sense finally because they all led up to that one.”

Will tries to form words to speak but has no idea what to say, working his mouth uselessly for a moment before closing it. He keeps his eyes firmly on the road ahead. There is a fine tremor in his hands that he hopes the other man doesn’t notice. He wishes he could ask him to stop talking.

“That’s why it doesn’t matter who I was or what anybody called me before,” Matthew continues. “‘Matthew Brown’ was the name on my ID tag when I met you, so...Matthew Brown is the only man I want to be anymore.”

The trembling in his hands appears to now be climbing up his arms to the rest of his body, so he very carefully pulls over to the side of the road and stops. He steeples his hands together as if in a gesture of prayer, though all he actually does is bring them up to his face and cover his nose and mouth with them, breathing deeply. Matthew says his name like a question, looking at him concernedly, and that’s what does it for him.

“For god’s sake, Matthew, you can’t just _say_ something like that to me, okay? You don’t...” He stops, pulling another breath into his lungs because he seems to have run out again already. “You need to take over here,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the wheel in front of him, “because I...I can’t.” He unbuckles himself quickly before Matthew can say anything and steps out, walking the long way around the back of the car to get to the passenger side. Matthew gets out and goes around to the other side from the front.

Will avoids meeting any of Matthew’s glances for the rest of the drive that evening, speaking up only once to say, “We need to figure out a way to find out where Hannibal’s gone.”

Matthew nods. “I don’t know how much it’ll help, but we can start by looking through international news reports and see if anything stands out.”

News comes in the form of a phone Matthew stole the other day—Will chose not to ask how or  where from—and which Will jailbroke and disabled the GPS on as soon as they got it, remembering how Beverly had showed him to do it once while they were waiting on lab results and she was bored. “And because you never know when it might come in handy,” she’d told him with a wink. “Just don’t tell any of the other junior G-men around here. It’s our little secret.” God, he misses Bev.

An hour later they’re in another motel room for the night, and Will is lying on the bed scrolling idly on the phone through various news sites, not really expecting to find anything, while Matthew is in the bathroom taking a shower. He freezes suddenly and sits up as one headline catches his eye. _‘Tourist Murdered - Found Holding Own Heart in His Hands.’_ He scans over the rest of the article quickly, his blood thumping loudly in his ears.

He’s still staring at the phone, having now read the article twice, when Matthew steps out wearing a T-shirt and sweats. “Find something?”

“It’s him,” Will whispers.

Matthew leans over his shoulder to look. “Sorry, I can’t read French,” he says apologetically.

Wordlessly, Will opens up the web browser’s settings to translate the page and hands the phone back to Matt. “I’m going to shower,” he says dully and walks into the bathroom while Matt continues to stand there and read.

Will realizes he forgot to grab a change of clothes after he shuts the door softly behind him, but it’s too late to go back out there now. He is unprepared to face anything Matthew might have to say for the moment, so instead he just strips mechanically where he stands, turns on the water, and steps under the spray, grateful at least that this is a semi-decent place with a good water heater so he doesn’t have to wait a few minutes for it to warm up again or worry about having to get out before he’s ready. He plans to be in here for a while so he can be alone and think.

There had been no picture with the article, but his imagination has no trouble conjuring the image up for him anyway. A fairly healthy man in his thirties, cut open and splayed out in the streets for all to see as they passed, perfectly arranged on one knee as if in proposal, his heart cut into halves and bleeding into the creases of his palms.

_This is a love letter. It’s a courtship,_ Will thinks, and yes, logically he’s always known that, has held no illusions about the nature of Hannibal’s interest in him, but to see it displayed so blatant and open in public is another animal altogether that he never expected he’d have to deal with. The man is practically wearing his heart on his sleeve now, for all that they are now thousands of miles apart, all but literally holding his heart out in his hands for Will to take and do with it as he pleases. The prospect of it is intoxicating and terrifying.

Will runs his fingers through his hair to massage shampoo into his scalp, and realizes when he tugs a little too hard that his hands are trembling again the way they were in the car earlier today, even though the water pouring over his head and down his back is warm. He breathes deeply and tries to relax, willing the tremor in his hands to stop so he can continue washing. It’s difficult to get them to cooperate, however, when there is a war going on inside him, cracking him apart with its vibrations like the fragile teacup it turns out he really is.

_Remember Abigail and Beverly,_ he tries to tell himself, _remember the people he’s hurt and everything he’s taken from you,_ but when he shuts his eyes the images that flicker behind his closed eyelids instead are ones of Cassie Boyle, artfully arranged on the stag’s head to give him the flash of understanding he needed to find Garrett Jacob Hobbs, the tourist whose face he doesn’t even know, the judge who threw out his defense dangling from wires with his brains scooped out of his head. Gifts that shouldn’t make him feel so warm and wanted, but the piece of him that used to feel horror at the visions that so often plagued his nightmares seems to have broken away from him entirely already and shattered onto the wet tiled floor. What use is there in clinging to old morals anymore when he’s on the wrong side of the law now anyway?

These aren’t the only images flickering behind his eyelids though. He also sees Andrew Sykes burnt and mounted on antlers in his honor, flakes of blood on a black shirt collar, and the knowledge of men-in-uniform he might have recognized once left scattered and broken on hospital floors, all just to get back to him when he hadn’t even been grateful or welcoming of the company at the time.

He whimpers, holding his head in his hands, and sinks down to the floor, folding his legs up and wrapping his arms around them much like he had done when he was a child and the things he would see got far too overwhelming for him. The thought that rather fittingly flits through his mind is that it’s all _so unfair._ He never asked for this. What has he done to deserve courtship from two very different men with surprisingly similar, if unorthodox, ideas about what qualifies as a romantic gesture?

The thought doesn’t come with the tinge of bitterness or irony that he might have expected to feel a few months ago. He can admit to himself now that he feels genuinely awed and humbled to know that two killers, both perfectly content with the lifestyles they had before in their solitude, would risk everything and derail their own previous patterns just to be near him. It’s hard _not_ to preen a little under all the attention…and feel terribly, terribly overawed at the same time. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do about this. He’s long past the point where he could have walked away from both of them without any heartbreak or bloodshed, if indeed such a point ever even existed, and god help him but he doesn’t even want towalk away from it anymore. Now he just _wants._

When he was ten, his mother had already been gone for a few years and he asked his father, with all the casual accidental cruelty of a child, what it was like to be in love. He had asked expecting honesty. This was the same Neal Graham, after all, who refused to lie or sugarcoat anything even when his son was six and stated matter-of-factly, “No, kiddo, there’s no creepy old guy in red pajamas leaving presents under the tree for you, just a momma and daddy who love you to bits.” And his father didn’t disappoint—honesty was exactly what he got.

“It’s the worst feeling in the world,” his father had admitted quietly, a sad faraway look in his eyes. Then he had looked up at Will from his chair with a pained smile, as if in apology for not having a kinder answer to give, ruffled his hair and asked him what he wanted for supper.

It’s taken over a couple of decades and a wholly different set of circumstances in his life than he could have ever expected, but he finally feels the full brunt of those words now and understands them with perfect clarity. No amount of empathy with others who have experienced the same could have actually prepared him for the exact moment in which it sinks in, while he is still curled in on himself at the bottom of a tub in a cheap motel room, in a town he hasn’t even bothered to learn the name of because he’ll be out of it again by tomorrow morning.

He leans back against the wall of the tub, letting the water pelt against his face as he sobs quietly, hoping that the shower is loud enough that Matthew won’t be able to hear him in the next room, and contemplates the awful choice he has to make.

*

Matthew barely pays any attention to what’s happening on the TV screen, having only clicked it on for the background noise and to make it less obvious that he’s merely waiting for Will to come out. As soon as the door opens, he shuts it off again and turns his head to face him.

The sight of Will with a towel wrapped around his waist and another one slung over his shoulder brings to mind some of his better memories from the hospital, but he puts the thought aside for when it’ll be more appropriate later. The man apparently also found the razor Matthew left in there earlier, as he is now totally cleanshaven for the first time since they’ve met each other. It makes him look like _he’s_ the younger of the two of them now, and Matthew might consider telling him so with a playful smirk if there wasn’t such a serious expression on his newly bared face.

Will walks over to the bag laid out on the table, but rather than grab any clothes he fishes out a comb and a pair of scissors instead. He brings them and the single dining chair over to the bed where Matthew is sitting and says, “I need you to cut my hair.”

“Uh, sure.” He sits up straighter and scoots closer to the edge while Will sets the chair up and sits with his back to him. “How much?”

“Just...short enough that I won’t be immediately recognizable compared to any recent photos that might have been sent out.”

“No problem,” Matt says. “Not much we can do to change my appearance though. I mean, I guess I could grow my own stubble out, but it makes the scar more noticeable,” he says, running a finger along the split in his chin. “Distinct feature, probably not a good idea.” Will hums agreeably in response and hands him the scissors.

He can’t resist letting his fingers run lovingly through still-damp curls when the opportunity is presented to him like this. Will hums again, this time with pleasure at the feeling, letting his eyes drift shut for a moment. Matthew allows himself a soft smile for it.

The two of them don’t speak for awhile, the only sound cutting into the silence the steady snip of the scissors shearing away strands of Will’s hair bit by bit.

“I need to ask you something,” Will says finally, tone soft as if he’s afraid of disturbing the peace suspended between them.

“Go ahead.”

Will doesn’t say anything else for a moment, contemplative, then asks, “Do you see any possibility of us getting out of the country and just...settling somewhere? Not going after Hannibal, just forgetting the whole thing?”

Matthew pauses in his cutting, considering. “Do you?”

“I asked you first,” Will says, smiling weakly. Matthew can just barely see the corner of it, wavering, when he steals a glance at Will’s profile from behind.

He swallows and says, “No, I don’t.”

“Yeah,” Will agrees, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply through his nose. “Me neither.”

Matthew resumes cutting and says, “Don’t get me wrong, I thought about it, but it would always be sort of hanging there, you know? A perpetual state of freefall. Always waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

“I know,” Will says. “He’d come for me even if I never go to him.”

Matthew feels a muscle twitch in his jaw but says nothing. He finishes up and runs his hand through Will’s hair again, shaking out any loose strands, then sets the scissors down on the nightstand and uses the second towel Will brought out to wipe them away from the back of his neck and his shoulders. Will rubs his own hand over his head reflexively, feeling the difference in length, then turns the chair and sits back down on it so they’re still in close proximity with one another, their knees almost brushing as they face each other.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen when we get there,” Will admits baldly. “I don’t...I don’t know what I want to happen.”

Matthew lets out a short humorless laugh. “Yeah, I know.”

“You _know?_ And you’re okay with that?”

Matthew smiles wryly, tilting his head sideways in a shrug. _“Okay_ may not be the right word for it, but it is what it is,” he says. He takes on a more serious expression as he says, “You do understand there’s no way all three of us are coming out of this and going on about our merry way afterwards, right?”

Will sucks in a sharp breath through his nose and glances away from him, eyes shining a bit as he nods. “I hadn’t really been letting myself think about it much before tonight, but yeah. Yes. I do understand that.” He breathes out shakily. “I almost hope it’ll be me who doesn’t come out of it.” Then he wouldn’t have to deal with the inevitable fallout of losing yet another person he’s come to…care about.

“You’re not allowed to fucking talk like that,” Matthew mutters darkly, drawing Will to look back at him again with a surprised lift of his brows. “That is the one thing I am definitely not be okay with. You’re going to be fine no matter what happens, you got that?”

“I’m not sure you’re the one who gets to decide that,” Will says with a tiny smile.

“I’m deciding it right now,” Matthew states adamantly. “Babe, you’re not in danger here, okay? It’s me Lecter wants out of the picture, and vice versa because yeah, I don’t like the smug prick much either. But _you,”_ here he grasps Will’s hands firmly with his own, “whatever happens, you’re not jumping in the middle of all that, you understand?”

“I’m already in the middle of it, Matt.”

_“Will,”_ Matthew says, tightening his grip. “I mean it. I will fucking lose it if anything happens to you. At any rate, you just told me you were undecided about what you want anyway, right?” he says, smiling weakly as if that’s not a painful concept at all, because it would be unfair of him to say _you’re supposed to want me._ “So maybe...just this once, you could let yourself off the hook and let fate decide this one for you.”

Will looks at him in disbelief for a moment. “I’m sorry, are you asking me to just sit back and _watch_ while the two of you try to _kill each other?”_ he asks, voice caught somewhere between personal offense and morbid amusement.

“I am,” says Matthew.

“What if you lose?” Will asks bluntly. He expects a slightly altered answer in light of that possible contingency, that or some stupid bravado about how he’s not going to lose.

Instead Matthew looks down, genuinely considering the question. He releases Will’s hands, though only so he can gently turn one of them palm up and trace his fingers reverentially over the pulse line of his inner wrist. “Then I guess I should be glad you won’t be alone again at least,” he says, trying to make it sound wry and offhand but knowing that he’s failed to hit the mark when the arm in his hand shifts, the other man straightening in his seat. “You should never have to be alone,” he adds as an afterthought, quietly enough that Will would have had to strain to hear it if he wasn’t already so close.

It’s not the answer Will expected to hear. His breath hitches in his throat when he tries to speak. _“Matt...”_ he starts.

“Just promise me one thing, if that happens,” Matthew says. He looks up to lock gazes with the older man once more. “Take control back. Don’t let him change you into something you don’t want to be.” The grip on Will’s wrist tightens again just the smallest bit. “He needs to learn to let you spread your wings and fly however you want, or he doesn’t deserve you. Can you promise me if that bastard ends up getting to keep you that you’ll at least make him work for it?”

Will nods, too overcome for words. Matthew smiles at him as if that’s all he ever wanted to know, and the sight of it is suddenly enough to make Will want to crawl into his lap and feel it against his own lips. So he does.

Matthew grunts softly in surprise but rolls with it, not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, the gift in this case being a practically naked Will Graham grinding down against his lap and curling his fingers under the hem of his shirt to bring him into a similar state of undress. Matthew helps him along, leaning back far enough to tug the shirt off over his head, then reaches for the towel that’s already come loose around Will’s waist and yanks it away, letting it drop carelessly to the floor.

Together they work to get the cloth pants off Matthew’s legs, and then there’s nothing but miles of bare skin and sweat between them. There is no finesse to their movements as they rut against each other helplessly and continue to make out like teenagers, roaming hands and sloppy, messy kisses with clacking teeth and swollen bruised lips.

He would have liked their first time to be something more slow and reverent, not this wordless desperation of two men who aren’t sure how much time they’ll actually have together, but he takes what he can get for now and doesn’t ask for more. Maybe if he’s lucky, there will be time before they reach their final destination for him to learn all the contours of Will’s body, offering tender worship and devotion to every inch of skin within reach.

Maybe if he’s _very_ lucky, there will be time after as well.

For now, it’s enough to watch the way Will’s eyelids flutter shut and his entire body shakes apart at the seams as he strokes himself to completion against Matthew’s hip, widening his lips around a loud groan as he lets himself go, spurting over Matthew’s stomach.

Matthew flips them over while Will’s limbs are still quivering from his orgasm, chasing his own now with more abandon as he slides himself between Will’s slippery thighs. Will squeezes his legs closer together to make it a tighter channel and drags Matthew’s head down to his own to claim his mouth in another biting kiss. Matthew comes silently, fingers gripping the other man’s arms hard enough to leave bruises later.

Matthew drops his head down onto Will’s shoulder, and the two of them lay there in a tangle of limbs, struggling to catch their breaths. They’ll both have to shower again later, he knows, but for now Matthew just wants to hold onto Will for as long as he can, and commit the feeling of their sated, sticky bodies slotted perfectly together like this to memory. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How does the saying by William Faulkner go? _"In writing, you must kill all your darlings."_
> 
> I may not be killing _all_ of them here (and as I certainly don't need to remind any of you, none of them of course are actually "mine"), but it feels nonetheless like I'm ripping my own heart out of my chest and presenting it for you all here. Thank you for riding this emotional roller coaster with me, guys. Now fasten your seatbelts as we ascend to the top of the hill...

It is not in France, but in Italy, where they track him down at last. Hannibal has been leaving him bodies across Europe all the while, like gifts wrapped up elegantly in ribbon and blood, but also as calling cards guiding him to follow the trail all the way home.

And a lovely home it is—not at all like the ostentatious beast left behind in Baltimore, though it certainly carries no less of the polish and grace of Hannibal’s distinct taste, even from outside. There is something more delicate and almost subdued, however, about this charming little villa that sits just close enough to the edge of the city to suit Hannibal’s desire to be near a bustling urban center—perfect as the backdrop for numerous social gatherings and rich hunting grounds alike—yet also far enough out in the open, expansive countryside to provide isolation and tranquility away from the world. One look had been enough to instill in Will the certain conviction that it had been selected specifically with him in mind. The thought makes him ache with both longing and dread, old familiar feelings he is well used to associating with each other by now, especially where Hannibal Lecter is concerned.

The placement of the house also has its practical uses—it had been difficult to approach stealthily when Will and Matthew had gone to scout it out, observing only from the outside while its owner was out, neither daring to get too close where their tracks would have been noted, much less venture inside.

Matthew is not here with him now. Will has asked him to wait and let him go alone, then follow behind later after enough time has passed. Matthew had disliked the idea for obvious reasons but reluctantly agreed, respecting his decision. Something in Will needs this, the chance to see Hannibal again without the threat of violence and bristling hostility between the now ex-psychiatrist and former orderly hanging in the air.

It is late afternoon, the sun just beginning its slow descent into the horizon, casting his walk up the long drive in hues of orange and pink. There is no way Hannibal does not see him by now, is unaware of his presence as he treks his way up to the house, but still there is no flicker of movement in the windows, no sign Will can see that the man is peeking out through the curtains and watching him.

Nonetheless, the door opens for him readily before he has even had a chance to lift up his hand and knock. “Will,” Hannibal greets warmly as he stands aside to let the other man enter.

It is as though little time has passed at all since their last meeting, like Will is just coming home for the day after an afternoon at work or out running errands. The idea that this is a feeling he could get used to causes his throat to stick, making it momentarily difficult to swallow.

Hannibal takes his jacket from him and hangs it up on the coat rack next to the door. “It is a bit early still for dinner perhaps, but I could reheat us some leftovers from lunch if you like.”

“You reheat leftovers?” Will asks, lips pulling up into a teasing smirk. No, nothing has changed between them at all. If anything it’s easier now than it was before, the weight of trying to convince himself it was all a lie in order to trick the man into implicating himself no longer a heavy burden on his shoulders. He can just be himself with the man fully for once, and the realization of it makes him feel light and carefree.

“But of course,” Hannibal says, baring a similar smile of his own at the jest. “This way,” he says, leading the younger man further into the heart of the house with a gentle hand at the small of his back.

The kitchen meets all of Will’s expectations exactly—it is here that Hannibal’s signature style really shines through. Hannibal pours them two glasses of wine, then reheats lunch on the stove instead of using a microwave _—because_ _of course he does—_ and brings it over on small plates to the island countertop instead of taking it to the dining room. He pulls out a stool for Will to sit on before taking his own seat beside him.

Will wonders idly who it is they will be dining on this afternoon, but it doesn’t really bother him the way it used to anymore except in the most abstract sense. Naturally, it smells heavenly even when reheated and missing the florid garnishes that would have been part of the original presentation.

“You are still traveling with Mr. Brown,” Hannibal says, spearing a piece of meat onto his fork and then taking a delicate bite. It is a statement, not a question.

Will blinks, chewing carefully before swallowing. There is no sense in lying about it or denying it, so he doesn’t even bother trying. “How did you know?” he asks.

“I can smell him on you.”

It takes a moment to sink in, but as soon as it does he finds himself blushing at the full implication of that statement, mortified and just the smallest bit guilty. Not that he has any reason to feel guilt, he reminds himself—he’s positive Hannibal had been technically still in a relationship with Alana when he had kissed Will, so glass houses and all that.

“Will he be joining us later?” Hannibal asks when it is clear that Will has no response to give.

Again, there is no reason to lie. “Yes,” he answers softly. “I asked him not to come until later on tonight and let me go on ahead.”

“Most considerate of him to respect your wishes,” Hannibal replies, tilting his head approvingly. “It will be good to see him again. There are unfinished matters between he and I which will need to be settled once and for all.”

Will says nothing in response to that, staring down at his plate while his fingers grip the stem of his wine glass tightly enough that it might break if he’s not careful. Suddenly he doesn’t feel hungry anymore.

A gentle hand comes up to cradle the side of his face and turn his head, drawing his gaze up to the other man’s once more. “But never mind that unpleasantness for now,” Hannibal says, his normally unfathomable eyes now warm and affectionate. “You are here, sitting beside me once more as you always should be. That is the only thing that matters.”

He leans closer, now grasping both sides of Will’s face between his hands, and brushes his lips over the younger man’s. It is nothing like their last kiss. Where that one had been a rough, possessive claim, this one is affirming and sweet. It feels like coming home. Will responds to it eagerly, lips parting on a contented sigh and allowing the other man’s tongue entrance.

The kiss deepens, and Hannibal stands without releasing his hold on Will, looming over him to press their bodies closer. One of the plates gets pushed out of the way and strong hands slide down Will’s arms and torso to grip onto his hips. Will’s arms wrap instinctively around Hannibal’s shoulders as he is lifted slightly higher onto the edge of the countertop to provide the other man with sturdier leverage. Hannibal devours his mouth in earnest and nudges Will’s legs apart with his knee so he can stand between them, rubbing their clothed groins against one another.

Will moans into it and pulls back from the kiss, panting. _“Hannibal,”_ he says dizzily, voice roughened.

_“Darling,”_ Hannibal whispers right against Will’s ear, making him shiver. “Allow me to make up for lost time and do what I have wanted to since before you were rudely taken from me too soon,” he says, caressing his hands over Will’s sides and eliciting another soft exhalation from the empath’s lips. “Let me make love to you.”

Will nods without thinking about it. This was something he had avoided allowing to happen back in Baltimore, but the reasons for that are mostly irrelevant now and difficult to recall anyway, what with the way the other man’s hands are currently groping and fondling and driving him to utter distraction.

He lets himself be led upstairs without a second thought. His hands get batted away when he starts to unbutton his own shirt, Hannibal apparently bound and determined to be the one divesting him of every article of clothing and shedding the barriers between them himself, continuing to stroke and caress as he does, raising goosebumps over Will’s skin with every touch.

He moves as if there is no hurry between them, no reason to rush at all, savoring every moment. The fact that Will does not know what Hannibal thinks this is, does not know what he himself thinks this is, if this is the only time they will have or the first night of many, is both thrilling and horrible all at once.

Will arches up off the bed when their chests brush, enjoying the rough texture of wiry hair against his own smooth chest, and his toes curl as long fingers pull on his hair and force his head to move in any which direction Hannibal so chooses, that elegant mouth leaving its seemingly permanent fixture on his own at last only long enough to latch onto his neck instead and suck hard until Will’s eyes roll into the back of his head.

Hannibal seems to lose all patience after that. He pulls away only long enough to grab a jar from the bedside table and unscrew the lid, coating himself liberally with its contents before pushing Will’s knees up to his chest, then abruptly and without warning drives himself in.

Will cries out, clenching the bedsheets tightly between his fingers and gasping at the feeling of being stretched and taken like this without any preparation beforehand. Really, he should probably be grateful he hasn’t been entirely celibate during the time they’ve been apart and is not unused to the feeling of being penetrated, or else this would likely be a more painful experience and take longer for the pleasure to build.

As it is, coherent thought spirals away quickly when Hannibal bends him even further, allowing for harder and deeper thrusts as he continues to bury himself. Will digs his heels into Hannibal’s back and clings to the headboard for dear life, voice devolving into a long series of moans and high-pitched whimpers until he grows hoarse.

When he’s close, Hannibal allows him to lower his legs a bit and uses a hand to stroke him in time with his thrusts until Will comes spurting into his hand. He lowers himself enough then to kiss Will again, tumbling into his own orgasm shortly thereafter with Will’s tight inner walls clenching spasmodically around him.

They lay together for some time afterwards, gliding their hands idly over each other’s bodies and enjoying the nearness of the other for a little while longer, until Hannibal looks to the sky outside and sees that it is dark out. “Is there time?” he asks.

Will swallows, slightly uneasy at the reminder of what has yet to come but still sated and bone-tired enough not to react any stronger than that, and glances over at the alarm clock at the side of the bed. He nods once. “Some,” he whispers, voice still rough.

Hannibal raises one of Will’s hands to his lips and kisses it. “A brief shower together then, and afterwards I’ll show you around the garden in the backyard. It appears quite lovely in the moonlight.”

Will smiles, accepting the hand offered to help him sit up, and allows Hannibal to lead the way.

*

After Hannibal shows him around, Will follows him back into the kitchen and falls easily back into their routine from before, helping him wash the dishes they left out in disarray earlier and putting them away.

The knock at the front door, when it comes, has Will’s eyes darting to the clock on the stove, his hands pausing in the motion of drying one of the wine glasses. Precisely on time. He swallows again.

“Well, I wonder who that could be,” Hannibal says, lips twitching up into a wry smile. “Could I trouble you to finish up in here while I go to answer the door?”

Will nearly has a panic attack as Hannibal leaves the room without waiting for his answer, bodily forcing himself not to follow immediately after him by gripping the edge of the sink with one hand. He has to tell himself that there’s no way they’re going to kill each other immediately on the spot. They will, at the very least, want to wait until he is there to see it. Right?

Will stares hard at his own reflection in the glass in his hand, fingers tightening infinitesimally around it as he hears the murmur of first Hannibal’s voice, then Matthew’s, low enough that he cannot make out the words they are saying. This is it. This is happening _right now._ He squeezes his eyes shut, exhaling a shaky breath, and steels himself to face the moment he knows is coming and is in no way ready for, nor ever will be.

The two of them are standing a few feet apart in the foyer directly facing each other, no longer speaking by the time he enters, backs straight, polite smiles painted on their faces, though because Will can see Matthew’s better and knows his expressions well by now, he can see the strain behind it and the tension in his limbs. Some of that tension seems to loosen when he notices Will there, as though relieved, leaving Will to wonder if he was perhaps not as confident as he claimed to be that Will would be free from danger at Hannibal’s hand.

His eyes land on the still-sore bruise vividly sucked onto Will’s throat, and he flinches. Will bites his lip, feeling suddenly hot with shame.

“Ah, there you are, my dear,” Hannibal says, turning slightly to face him. Will would roll his eyes at the obvious posturing if he wasn’t still watching Matt, the feeling of guilt and embarrassment still crawling down his spine the way it had been earlier when Hannibal told him he could smell Matthew on him.

Matthew lifts his gaze to meet Will’s and shifts the look on his face into a quick reassuring smile, as if to silently communicate, _it’s fine, don’t worry about it._ He had known exactly what to expect when Will told him he wanted to see the man on his own first. Somehow, Will doesn’t feel any better about it.

“Now would be when I would normally begin to prepare dinner, if you would care to join us,” Hannibal says to Matthew.

“Pass,” Matthew replies disdainfully. Hannibal’s eyes narrow, as if genuinely offended that anyone would turn down an opportunity to taste his cooking. “Not my pathology,” Matthew continues, smiling sweetly when the comment causes a muscle to twitch in Hannibal’s jaw.

Hannibal immediately seems to realize he is showing more of his true range of emotions than he would normally care to, and smoothes his expression down into another demure smile and a charming duck of his head as he says, “How about a drink in the parlor instead then? Please, I really must insist.” With that, he gestures for them both to follow and turns on his heel, heading towards a door at the end of the hall.

Matthew stares after his back for a moment, then looks at Will and tilts his head as if to say, _Can you believe this guy?_ Will smiles weakly at him, then very deliberately steps forward to follow the other man, putting himself physically between them as if to keep their confrontation at bay for as long as possible. Matthew follows after him.

Hannibal gestures for both of them to sit and pours three tumblers of scotch from a decanter at the sideboard. Will takes a seat in the center of the couch placed in front of the coffee table and watches him pour. Matthew hovers somewhere nearby in Will’s peripheral, still standing.

Hannibal sets one drink at the small writing desk, closest to where Matthew is standing but not so close as to seem provoking while the young man watches him warily. The second he hands to Will directly with a small smile. Will accepts it merely to have something to do with his hands. Hannibal then sits in one of the armchairs on the opposite side of the coffee table and crosses his leg over his knee, taking a delicate sip of his own drink and allowing his eyes to slide shut with a low appreciative hum as the taste of it spreads on his tongue.

No one speaks. The clock on the mantelpiece ticks the seconds away loudly. Will wonders if its steady rhythmic pattern is etching itself into anyone else’s brain, jangling their nerves on such a high note it feels as though they are physically vibrating under the skin, or if that’s just him.

More seconds tick by. “Is the scotch not to your taste, my darling?” Hannibal asks, indicating the full glass in Will’s hand of which he has yet to take a sip.

_I’m more of a bourbon fan,_ Will wants to quip, if only to ease some of the tension in the room, but Matthew speaks up first before he can get the words out.

“He doesn’t have to drink it just because you handed it to him,” the younger man snaps. Will can feel anger that has nothing to do with the whisky rolling off of him in waves.

“Certainly not,” Hannibal agrees. “Although,” he says, eyes straying over to the glass that still sits untouched on the desk, “in most households it is considered rude not to accept what the host has offered.”

Matthew chuckles darkly. “Like I would accept anything you give me.”

“You seem to have no trouble taking that which has not been given.”

Will can see from the corner of his eye how Matthew tenses at that. _Calm down,_ he wants to tell the younger man. _He’s baiting you. He wants to wind you up._ He doesn’t say it though. Matthew would likely not listen anyway if he did.

“Do you hear how he talks about you?” Matthew asks him through clenched teeth.

Hannibal raises one elegantly arched brow. “Whoever said I was speaking about Will? I did happen to be rather fond of that painting you stole from my dining room for your own petty amusement.”

_“Please,”_ Will says finally, knowing there’s no way he can prevent the inevitable escalation from words to something far worse but desperate to make the attempt anyway. He sets the glass down on the coffee table and looks between both of them, trying to meet each man’s gaze in turn before he asks, “Is there no other way we can settle this?”

Hannibal looks from Matthew to Will, a moue of regret crossing over his features. “I am afraid not, my dear.”

“No way,” Matthew agrees. “Sorry, babe.”

Hannibal sets his own glass down and rises from his seat. He straightens the cuffs on his sleeves, wiping away an invisible speck of lint, and moves to stand a few feet away from Matthew, facing him as they had done in the foyer. Will follows him with his eyes and shifts further down the couch, half-turned, to keep them both in his line of view, feeling once again like there is a live wire running through his veins making him want to vibrate right out of his own skin.

“It seems we have reached our impasse then, Mr. Brown.”

“Looks like,” Matt says.

Hannibal inclines his head slightly then and says, “However this ends, it has been interesting knowing you, Matthew.”

“Likewise, Doc,” Matthew says, and then launches himself at the other man.

Part of Will wants almost childishly to hide his face behind his hands and turn away, unable to stand watching the two men he’s fallen hopelessly for attempt to rend each other to pieces before his eyes, but he can’t bring himself to look away, at the same time afraid of missing a single moment.

Each of them holds his own pretty well at first, neither one gaining much advantage over the other at any given point. It’s not long before they both have visible cuts and scrapes from blows that have landed, though mostly they spend time lunging and parrying each other’s attacks and blocking in turn. Matthew’s moves are quick and efficient, the practiced actions of a man who has seen a lot of prison yard scraps and barroom brawls and knows how to end them quickly, while Hannibal’s motions are those of a dancer, more elegant and fluid.

They both have plenty of experience, and Matthew has the advantage of youthful exuberance and quick reflexes on his side, but Hannibal has an advantage as well in his greater patience, less prone to getting frustrated when something doesn’t go as he expected and able to pace himself well for a prolonged encounter.

Will sees it just before it really happens, knowing both of his two lovers as well as he does, the moment when the fight takes a turn one of them will not be recovering from.

He holds his hand over his mouth, wincing in sympathy pain even before Matthew shouts in agony as Hannibal catches his arm mid-swing and twists it at a bad angle, almost certainly stretching the muscle out too far and possibly even wrenching it a bit of socket as he pulls. Matthew barely manages to free himself from the hold, staggering backwards a little.

Hannibal wastes no time in pressing the advantage and advances on him, whisking up with one hand the up-until-now “forgotten” tumbler of scotch on the writing desk and tossing the liquor into his face, forcing Matthew to cover his now burning eyes instinctively as he hisses in pain, stumbling further. Hannibal brings the thick, heavy glass down hard on the back of Matthew’s head, and the younger man crumples to the floor wounded and dazed.

Will stands almost without realizing he’s doing so, his focus narrowing on this single moment that seems to slow almost to a crawl in his mind as one of the men he loves stands over the other one, victory at hand now even if he does allow himself just a moment to catch his breath. The other won’t be getting back up anytime soon.

This is what fate has decided for him. The dice have rolled and the odds have landed in Hannibal Lecter’s favor. Really, deep down, Will has always known this would be the case, hasn’t he? His destiny has always been bound up with Hannibal’s in one way or another. It is a conclusion as inevitable as the rising of the sun, however much Will may have for a time allowed himself to entertain the notion that this could ever go any other way.

His feet move over the rich padded carpeting, bringing him directly next to the other man. He has eyes only for Hannibal in this moment, cannot bring himself to look at Matthew now that he knows the inevitable truth of how this has to be.

Hannibal looks at him in mild surprise. Will smiles, feeling himself burst from within with love and adoration for this man, and leans up almost on his toes to kiss him deeply.

With both of their eyes closed and absorbed in the feeling of each other, Will slides his hand carefully into his own pocket and pulls out what he had tucked away in there earlier.

The sharpened end of the broken-off wineglass stem slices cleanly into Hannibal’s jugular, the man jerking once slightly in shock, and Will pulls back just enough to look into his eyes as he finishes slashing it across his throat, his own eyes shining with unshed tears, reverent and loving as Hobbs had been when he slid his own blade across his daughter’s throat.

Rather than reaching for his own throat to stem the bleeding, Hannibal’s hands come up to grip tightly onto Will’s shoulders to keep himself from falling. Will slides his own arms around the man’s torso, holding him up, the glass stem falling from his numb fingers onto the floor. Hannibal lets his own hands fall away then, weakening but trusting Will to hold him up even now.

_“I’m so sorry,”_ Will whispers, a single tear streaking down his cheek.

Hannibal manages a smile, the look in his eyes one not of betrayal, but of pure adoration, and glimmering darkly even alongside that, _pride._

Matthew stirs from somewhere below them off to the side, blinking away the last of the stinging alcohol and involuntary tears it caused from his eyes. Eyes which widen in alarm as he exclaims hoarsely just a moment too late, _“No!”_

Will gasps soundlessly, the bite of the blade cold and shocking as it buries itself into his abdomen. He drops Hannibal then without meaning to, stumbling backwards, hands clutched over the wound oozing blood out and quickly soaking through his shirt. He topples to the floor himself, still sitting up only because of the edge of the coffee table digging into his shoulder behind him.

_“No, no,”_ Matthew is saying, starting to crawl toward him even though that has to hurt his arm. His voice already sounds distant and fading to Will.

“S’okay...s’fine...” he slurs, trying to comfort and reassure the younger man. His head lolls and he catches sight of Hannibal still watching him, still smiling, even as he bleeds out and his own body starts to go into convulsions. Will smiles back. _Always need to have the final say, don’t you?_ he silently telegraphs, imagining the other man can hear him as his smile widens infinitesimally before he finally begins to still.

The coffee table ceases to be enough and Will slides sideways to the floor in a bent C-shaped position. He can still make out the shape of Hannibal’s form lying there, but only just, having a better view now of the wall behind him instead from here.

_“You can’t do this to me, baby, come on. Stay with me, Will. Don’t you dare leave me here!”_

Will’s vision darkens, yet in the flicker of the lights and shadows on the walls he thinks he can make out the tangle of antlers warping and shifting along the paneled wood. He feels water lapping at his ankles and hears soft, joyous, feminine laughter tinkling like bells in his ears. He thinks it might be Abigail or Beverly, or perhaps both.

A hand touches his face, another, his wound. Will relishes it, feeling warm and loved as he had never hoped to be, having once been certain as the sun sets that he would always be alone.

He feels anything but alone now, and it is with that thought in his head that he loses the fight to stay conscious and drifts quietly into darkness.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and _whoosh_ goes the coaster as we all fall screaming on the way down. ~~Also, I'm sorry I suck so much at writing fight scenes.~~ I honestly just wanted to get it over with as soon as possible because _ow, my boys, MY HEART._
> 
> And never fear, I know I left off in the middle of a cliffhanger, but chapter 10 is being posted STAT right after this, so if you don't see that "Next Chapter" button yet, just hit refresh and you should be good to go. ;)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you missed it, I just posted chapter 9 a few minutes ago, so be sure to go read that FIRST. And in case you've really been out of the loop--remember that I posted chapter 7 last week, then chapter 8 just a few days later, and now chapters 9 and 10 here. (I just want to make doubly sure that everyone is all caught up and on the same page before going forward. Thanks!)

Jack Crawford opens the file report one last time, to make sure everything is in order, all of his i’s dotted and t’s crossed, every page arranged neatly and not a one of them gone astray somewhere in a moment of distraction.

He contemplates one last time the photo that Italian authorities provided just a few days ago, several weeks after the incident in question, having realized only recently in their own investigations that the victim they had found matched the description given of a wanted serial killer fled from the United States.

In the photo, a man is nailed to the wall outside his own house, metal spikes driven through his wrists to hold him up in a Christ-like pose. There is a gaping hole in his chest, and where his heart should be, is a single delicate rose bloom plucked from his own garden. It was done post-mortem.

The man has other wounds, including scratches on his face and the slash across his neck that actually ended his life. Though it is not quite the same crisp quality one of his own team could have provided had they been the ones taking the picture, it is still quite unmistakably Hannibal Lecter.

The Italian _polizia_ make it very clear in their own report that this is nothing more than a courtesy and that they are in no way inviting or welcoming any U.S. law enforcement emissaries on this case. There is no more information for them save a single mention that some of the blood found on the scene does not match the victim’s, though nothing more detailed than that is given. Jack thinks he knows exactly whose blood types it would match. He thinks it may also be exactly the excuse he’s been looking for for awhile, since Bella first told him she was sick. He always said that the moment he felt like he was no longer good for this job, he would leave it to someone who could handle it better.

Jack does still feel like he can do good in this job. It is other areas of his life that he feels could use improvement, areas which more deserve his attention now that the one case that has haunted him for years is finally over, more or less, with only one real loose end that he honestly doesn’t feel guilty anymore in hoping, secretly, is doing alright and stays lost. He wishes none of this had come to what it did in the end, but he can’t quite find it in himself to regret it either.

He lets the file fall closed with a soft thump, and settles neatly on top of it his own resignation letter. After he drops both off in the Inspector General’s inbox, he leaves work and heads for the grocery store first thing on his way home.

Tonight, he thinks he will make Bella’s favorite casserole and a rich dessert to go with it. Even if it turns out she can’t stomach sweets tonight, they can always have leftovers with breakfast in the morning.

*

When he wakes, it is gradual, his eyelids fluttering under the hazy light peeking in through the curtains. His limbs feel warm and heavy, and that tells him he is probably a little bit drugged out, but still coherent and present. He stirs, trying to sit up a little so the light isn’t directly in his eyes, and grunts quietly in discomfort.

Soft footsteps come quickly at the sound to aid him, a presence standing near enough now to block out the light. Will lets his eyes open fully then and sees Matthew hovering over him concernedly. What little he can make out of the room tells him it’s not a hospital room, most likely some tiny apartment Matthew has them holed up in while Will recovers.

“You’re awake,” Matthew whispers, letting his lips turn up into a hopeful smile. It’s not the first time Will has woken up since he brought them here, though it is the first time in a little while that he has appeared this lucid in his conscious state.

The first time he had woken up, he had been mildly delirious from drugs and fever and tried to pull up the bandages on his stomach until Matthew stopped him, quickly giving up and slumping back onto the bed, mumbling nonsensically that it didn’t matter anyway because it always looked the same. _“Some scars,”_ he had slurred in his half-conscious state, _“are inevitable in every universe.”_ He had then passed out again immediately afterwards.

Matthew has stayed by his side constantly ever since, half-worried if he’s away for too long that there might be a repeat of Will trying something with the bandages again, though fortunately that hasn’t happened any of the other times Will has been conscious.

“How are you feeling?” he asks the older man.

“Like I got stabbed,” Will jokes, coughing a little when his throat sticks with disuse. Matthew immediately grabs a cup of water sitting on the bedside table and sits on the side of the bed, bringing the straw to Will’s lips so he can take a sip.

“Yeah well, you’re lucky you had a fake nurse on hand who actually picked up a thing or two about dressing wounds and treating infections while he was working at the hospital,” Matthew quips. “Lucky too that it wasn’t very deep. It just bled a lot and didn’t hit any vital organs.” He frowns down at the man then, realizing when Will’s eyes stay fixed to him without losing focus that this is the first chance they’ve gotten to discuss what happened. “This wouldn’t have happened if you’d stayed out of it like I told you to,” he says.

He wants to be more grateful about it—Will’s interference saved his life after all—but he can’t quite bring himself to react like he should after countless sleepless nights staying at the other’s bedside, terrified for the first few that every struggling breath rattling out of the man’s chest could be his last. He also doesn’t understand why Will did it yet.

“You also told me to take control back,” Will says, smiling. “So I decided to tell fate to fuck off and let me make my own decisions for once.” That’s not the full reasoning and they both know it, but Matthew doesn’t press him for answers at the moment.

“How’s your arm?” Will asks, noticing that it seems to be working fine, though Matthew winces a little from time to time if he moves his shoulder a certain way.

“It’s fine. Still hurts a little but nothing I can’t handle,” he admits. “I had to reset it. That is _not_ as simple or fun as they make it look in dumb action flicks, by the way. Would not recommend it,” he adds dryly. “Almost thought I was gonna pass out from the pain. Probably would’ve done gladly if I didn’t have you to look after.”

Will smiles weakly. He almost feels like he should be apologizing for making the other man worry, but an apology requires regret, and that is something he cannot feel right now about what he did. He suspects part of him will later—not because he chose Matt, and certainly not because he is here living and breathing now, but because his choice meant that Hannibal had to die. Even now, bedridden as he is because it wasn’t enough for Hannibal to have finally made Will into a murderer just like he always wanted, because even with his dying breath he just _had_ to try to take Will with him...even now, Will misses him.

“Did you...” he starts to ask, voice trailing off because he’s not sure how to finish. What, what is it that he wants to know?

Matthew seems to understand what he’s trying to ask even if Will doesn’t, something flickering behind his eyes as he says, “Yeah, I...well, I don’t know if you’d be okay with seeing it or not, but there’s a...there was a picture in one of the papers a day after. I kept it, in case you wanted to see.”

Will nods, throat clicking again as he swallows. “Show me.”

Matthew gets up and rifles through a satchel they picked up at the airport gift shop in Paris after they first landed, coming back with a newspaper which he carefully unfolds when he sits, then hands to Will silently. Neither of them reads Italian, but it’s not the words on the page which matter.

The paper crinkles in his hand a little as he stares at it, observing the way the blood drips like tears from the man’s marred wrists and from the gaping cavity in his chest. Though he has to squint to see it, he can just barely make out the bloom of petals placed _just so_ within the cage of his ribs. Without thinking about it, his fingers graze reverentially over it.

“It was kind of rushed, I know,” Matthew says, ducking his head self-consciously. “I had you just barely stabilized in the house, and I wanted to get you somewhere safe where I could take care of you as fast as possible. But I knew you wouldn’t want us to just leave him there, and I thought,” here, he stops for a moment, shrugging his shoulders, “I thought about how he might have liked it to be done. Figured he would have appreciate the symbolism behind it.”

“Why?” Will asks him, letting the paper fall to his own chest. “Why would you do that for him? He wouldn’t have done the same for you.” There would have been a display, certainly, but it would not have been this same careful reverence and respect for the clay he was working with. It would have been much the same as any other of the Ripper’s sounders, an especially vicious mockery of the pig who dared aspire to such lofty dreams as getting to have what the Ripper had already claimed for himself.

“I didn’t do it for _him,”_ Matthew answers. “I knew it was something you would have wanted to do if you could, and I didn’t want you to look back later and wish we could have done something more to honor him better.”

Will takes a deep shuddering breath to steady himself and lifts his hand to cradle Matthew’s cheek. _This,_ he thinks in answer to the question Matthew hasn’t dared to ask aloud yet even though Will could see it plainly in his eyes from the moment he awoke, _this is why._ “I love you,” he whispers.

Matthew smiles beatifically at that statement, turning his head to kiss Will’s palm.

They remain still and silent like that for a moment, until Will brings himself to ask one last question. “What did you do with the heart?”

Matthew glances up to meet Will’s gaze again and says, “It’s in the freezer.”

Will feels his own heart clench and flutter at that statement, wondering if he could possibly love this man any more than he already does if he tried. “I thought that wasn’t in our pathologies,” he tries to joke.

“Definitely not mine,” Matthew quips, smirking. “Maybe not yours either, but again I thought about how you would want to honor him, especially since I already did the display on your behalf,” he says. “I know you’d want to do something you think he would want, and I couldn’t think of anything he would want more than knowing that you kept a piece of him with you always.”

Will’s vision blurs and he realizes suddenly that he is crying. His hands tug on Matthew’s shirt, urging him to lean down over Will so he can kiss him properly. He then wraps his arms around Matt’s shoulders in as tight a hug as his feeble limbs can muster and whispers into his ear, _“Thank you.”_

The two of them stay like that for awhile, their foreheads resting together as if they are both offering benediction to one another. It’s not perfect, but it is enough and it is theirs. Will thinks this is all the salvation either of them needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 11 is the epilogue, which should be fairly short and sweet, so be on the watch for it within hopefully the next day or two. :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took a couple of days longer than expected, but here is the epilogue, guys! And for those of you who might be interested in a little brownham deleted scene between chapters 8 and 9, you can find it on my tumblr blog [here](http://aglassroseneverfades.tumblr.com/post/115646823323/delicious-easter-smut) as I won't be posting it on AO3. ;)

**_Two Years Later_ **

“Down, Ingrid,” Matthew chides gently without even needing to look at the tenacious terrier trying to hop up his legs as though she thinks she can climb up him like a cat as soon as he steps through the door, coming in through the kitchen instead of the living room as he often does when he has groceries in hand.

Ingrid barks and runs around ecstatically in reply, and Matthew snorts, thinking about what a far cry this tiny tornado of boundless energy is from the meek, abandoned runt they found wandering hungry in the streets of Wicklow almost a year ago. She certainly isn’t shy or skittish now. There was no question of course that she would be coming home with them as soon as Will saw her.

This is the longest stretch of months so far in which they’ve stayed in even the same country, let alone the same region. Both of them like the Irish countryside with its rolling hills and sheer cliffs. He won’t mind if Will decides they should stay even longer. Wanderlust will probably set in again for both of them eventually, but for Matthew the feeling doesn’t come on as strong or as frequently as it used to when he was younger, not when he’s content simply with being wherever Will wants them to be.

After he puts everything away, he heads into the living room where he expects to see Will typing at the tiny desk shoved up against the wall in the corner of the room, working on the latest manuscript in a moderately successful series which he writes under a pseudonym. The computer is on when he gets there, but the desk chair is empty and the screen is darkened from inactivity.

He finds Will sprawled out languidly on the sofa, asleep, one arm resting on his chest while the other one dangles off the side of the couch. A cup of tea sits on the coffee table, no doubt cold by now. Matthew thinks he should just let him be and leave him to his nap, maybe take Ingrid out for an early walk. Yet it is as if Matthew’s silent, unassuming presence alone is enough to pull Will back into the land of the living, for gradually his eyes flutter open and land on Matthew just as the younger man is thinking about turning around.

“Mm, hey there,” Will says, voice soft and warm with sleep.

“Hey yourself,” Matthew says, smiling. “Mind if I sit?”

In response, Will stretches his limbs out lazily for a moment, eyes shut, then bends his knees up to pull his feet out of the way. Matthew sits in the spot they vacated and they immediately return as soon as he’s settled, coming to rest in his lap. Matthew swirls patterns over bare ankles with his fingertips, then does it again over the soles of Will’s feet, unable to resist a gleeful smirk when Will gasps and tries to pull his feet away, a startled _“Quit it!”_ escaping from his lips with just a breath of laughter underneath. Matthew stops, still smirking, letting his hands rest gently over the man’s ankles again without moving.

“You have a good rest?” Matt asks.

Will hums. “Was supposed to be just a five-minute break after you left,” he answers. “Sofa was too comfortable though. Didn’t feel like moving again afterwards.”

“I was only gone for about forty minutes,” Matthew says. “I don’t think your deadline’s gonna suffer too much from a half-hour nap.”

Will smiles up at him, but it’s tinged with something else, a little sadder than it was a moment before. “I don’t think I’ll be getting back into it at all today, to be honest,” he admits quietly. “It was difficult to focus earlier. That’s why I stopped.”

Ah. Matthew's eyes flicker downward briefly as he casts his mind back to the calendar hanging on the kitchen wall, trying to recall what date it is. “It’s the anniversary,” he says. He can’t believe he almost forgot, but then again it’s not really his day to remember, however significant it may actually be to him as well. In a lot of ways, the burden of that memory falls to Will and Will alone.

Will nods. His gaze rests on Matt for a moment until something in his expression changes, and then he turns his head, eyes flickering to a shadowed corner of the room somewhere over Matt’s shoulder. It’s not the first time he’s ever done so, nor will it be the last. Matthew wonders if Will is aware that sometimes when he does it, his fingers graze lightly over his shirt, right over where the scar is—much like they are doing right now.

Matthew doesn’t say anything about it, never has and never will. Perhaps a more normal person would be disturbed or bothered by these lapses in his lover, when Will’s imagination spills over briefly into his waking reality and draws him into a shared moment with someone who is really no longer there, but Matt has never been concerned by them. It’s just something Will does when he needs it on occasion, like wading into the quiet stream in his head that he told Matthew about once.

He cannot find it in himself to begrudge Doctor Lecter this either. He doesn’t need to feel jealous or greedy of Will’s love after all, not when he is the one really here with Will now while Lecter is not, save only in memory.

Reluctantly, Matthew extricates himself from under Will’s legs, excusing himself with some remark about fixing them a late lunch so Will can continue to have his own private moment in peace. He’ll want time to himself for the most part today, and that’s fine with Matthew. There are many more days in the future ahead that are all theirs.

“I was thinking about taking Ingrid on her walk,” he says, tone hushed as if he’s trying not to be too disruptive to Will’s thoughts. “But maybe you’d like to take her instead?” he suggests.

Almost absently, Will nods his assent.

As Matthew is passing by the couch on his way back to the kitchen, Will stops him with one hand, snaring Matt’s fingers and intertwining them gently with his own. He tilts his head back on the armrest and looks up at Matthew, a soft grateful smile playing on his lips.

Matthew smiles in return, and wordlessly Will brings their joined hands to his lips and brushes a kiss to the other man’s knuckles, a familiar gesture between them though one usually done in reverse, Matthew typically being the more affectionate one who initiates contact and offers worship to Will’s skin.

_I’m here,_ it says, a reassurance Matthew doesn’t need but appreciates nonetheless. _I’m yours._

Matthew squeezes his fingers back lightly in response, just once, then gently releases the hand held in his and goes into the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _[ I have this little headcanon that Will really likes history and old movies in general, so his dogs get named after some of his favorite people from both, i.e. Winston Churchill, Buster Keaton, and in this story's case, Ingrid Bergman. And now you know! :) ]_
> 
>  
> 
> This concludes the true ending of _Freely They Stood and Fell,_ which I have unofficially dubbed "Hawks in the Wind" (and may go back and actually title chapters 9 through 11 as such later). What, you thought this was _actually_ over for good?? Don't you know by now that the author is a terrible human being who can't let things go ~~and has way too much fun toying with your emotions to stop now?~~ Lol! ;)
> 
> Kidding aside, after a lot of genuine personal reflection (and a few stimulating conversations with some of my lovely commenters), I've decided I really _can't_ let this story go for good until I've given Hannibal Lecter the proper send-off he deserves--an alternate ending where he's the one who gets to stay with Will (and which will most likely be titled "Folie à deux").
> 
> If you want, blame it on my personal obsession with always getting every possible ending in romantic visual novels where you get to choose your own love interest. I certainly do. _*sighs*_ It'll only be one chapter though, and after that _I swear_ I'm done with this story for real! So if that's something you want to stick around for, don't hit that 'Unsubscribe' button just yet. I'm gonna try to get it out to you guys by next week if I can, week after next at the latest. Until then...see you next update! ;)


	12. Alternate Ending: Folie à deux

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the alternate hannigram ending I promised. It made me cry really hard _and_ somehow turned out fluffier than I expected, so there's that. (Unofficial title of the original ending btw, since I didn't officially name it is "Hawks in the Wind.")
> 
> Picks up from the middle of the fight in chapter 9.

Will knows the exact moment when the fight has turned out of Matthew’s favor, seconds before the blow comes and the younger man crumples to the floor.

He fingers the wineglass stem in his pocket. If ever there is a moment to use it, this would be it, before it’s too late. He doesn’t have to let it go this way. He can get up, carry out the reckoning he promised Hannibal many months ago—even if the thought of doing so makes his throat clench painfully now—and he and Matthew can get away from here together. Strangely sweet, caring, impulsive Matthew who has never tried to change him, who would be content to change himself instead and settle down into a quiet, isolated life in a cabin in the middle of nowhere if Will asked it of him. Will can see it so clearly and part of him aches for it so badly.

Part of him aches as well for the man who challenges him, who stimulates his mind and his morals, who pushes him because he wants to see his beloved reach his full potential. In some dark corner of his brain, Will had secretly hoped he would find clarification before the end, but instead he still finds his thoughts and his wants distressingly muddled as ever.

What decides him, what undoes him, in his suspended moment of hesitation is a single look. Matthew recovers long enough to glance up, not at his attacker, but at Will. Something in the way Will must be looking at him makes all the tension release from the younger man’s limbs and draws a serene, accepting smile over his lips. He stops altogether, as if he knows exactly what Will is wrestling with, effectively taking the decision away from him.

It’s such a small sound, abrupt and final, when a man’s neck snaps. Smaller still, the sound that is drawn involuntarily from the back of Will’s own throat in answer, quiet enough that one nearly drowns out the other.

Hannibal kneels on the floor, the other’s body slumped forward, head resting still between Hannibal’s hands and on his knee as if in a strange imitation of supplication. The older man looks up at Will’s approach, a microexpression of quiet victory and satisfaction on his features that softens into something gentler, more compassionate when he looks up at the other man’s face.

“Oh, my dear Will,” he says soothingly, lifting his arm out in a gesture of invitation. “Come,” he says, and Will does, bending his knees to kneel beside Hannibal and letting the man wrap his arm around him and squeeze his shoulder comfortingly with one hand. Hands that have taken so much from him already. Abigail Hobbs. Beverly Katz. And now, now Matthew Brown. And _still_ Will finds himself pressing back into the touch, finds its warm heavy weight to be exactly what he needs, just as it always has been, just as it always will be. He is so entwined with this man that even in death, he believes, he would not have found his reprieve from him.

“Shall I give you some time alone?” Hannibal asks, solicitous and kind. Will nods, and the other man smiles, then carefully, as though he were handling a sleeping child rather than a corpse, nudges Matthew onto Will’s lap instead of his own. It should be morbid how much Will appreciates him doing that instead of just letting the man’s head fall to the floor.

Hannibal’s hand returns to curl around the nape of Will’s neck, fingers brushing gently against his hair, and he leans in to place a soft kiss against Will’s temple. “I will return shortly. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me.” With that he stands, collecting the tumblers of liquor around the room, and goes out the door they came in through.

Distantly in the back of Will’s mind, he wonders if Hannibal will say anything about the broken glass in the sink when he comes back. Most likely he won’t acknowledge it at all except in the form of a pleased knowing smile that Will won’t know how to interpret.

He waits until he can no longer hear the other man’s footsteps down the hall before he even allows himself to look down at his own lap. With his eyes closed and that small upturn of his lips, Matthew really does look like he could be sleeping, were it not for the limp angle of his neck and the way his body has already started to cool. Will finds himself running fingers through the man’s short hair, his vision blurring until he feels a couple of wet droplets landing on his knuckles.

He bends forward and rests his forehead against the back of the man’s head. He wants to apologize for a myriad of things—for being so indecisive, for letting it come to this, for already belonging in his heart to someone else before he and Matthew had ever even met.

He remembers the ghost of Matthew’s fingertips tracing lines over his wrist, his demands of a promise from Will should Hannibal be the victor…as if he’d known, as if he’d known… _“Take control back. Don’t let him change you into something you don’t want to be. Make him work for it.”_

Hannibal returns to him on soft footsteps, deliberately just loud enough to announce his presence without being obtrusive. After a moment of quiet observation, he clears his throat delicately and says, “I do not wish to rush you, but I’m afraid time is rather of the essence when it comes to the matter of cleanup.”

Will sits back up and looks up at him then, eyes bright and almost fierce as he locks gazes with the older man. “And what exactly does ‘cleanup’ entail in this case to you?” he asks. “No, don’t answer that. It doesn’t matter anyway. We’re not doing what you want.” Hannibal gives him a long, slow blink, surprised and intrigued by Will’s sudden vibrancy and fire. “You’re not desecrating him,” Will clarifies further.

Hannibal can admit to some disappointment at this pronouncement. He had planned quite the tableau for young Mr. Brown—a spectacle of him as Judas hanged and spilling his bowels out over the palazzo in mockery of the fate the younger man had planned for him in the poolhouse months ago, all of his distinguishing features burned away beyond recognition, obscure and forgotten.

Seeing the way Will looks at him now makes him rethink his plans, however. It would be in poor taste indeed to disrespect the young man in such a way against his beloved’s wishes. And he will admit, the idea had been formed at the height of his ire with Brown, before the young man had curiously conceded to Hannibal and willingly accepted his own end. It would be difficult for Hannibal to remain angry after witnessing such a graceful and dignified final act.

Hannibal tilts his forward demurely, acquiescent, and asks, “What is it you would like us to do instead?”

Will bites his lip, eyes flickering once more to the dead man in his lap before returning to Hannibal’s. “We should honor every part of him,” he states softly.

Hannibal feels a slow, pleased smile spread across his face, one which he does nothing to hide. He had feared that Will, no longer trying to put on an elaborate act with the intention of tricking Hannibal, might not truly wish to engage in such unorthodox activities with him any longer either. He is delighted to know that this is not the case.

“Then honor him we shall,” he says in answer.

*

Will watches him butcher the young man. Hannibal had expressly told him he did not have to, if he didn’t wish to, but Will had merely shook his head and stated that he needed to see it. If not, he would imagine it on his own anyway and the images he would conjure in his head would be far worse.

Will’s tears have already been spent in the study. He does not cry or flinch or look away, or in any visible way react much at all really. That is not to say he has zoned out, however, retreating to the quiet stream in his own mind palace where he goes to escape his fears. He is still very much present, even asking the older man clinical questions as they occur to him about the process and what the final product will be. A distraction or coping mechanism of a different sort perhaps, but one that Hannibal finds wonderfully engaging as he works.

Hannibal wonders if Will would behave much the same if the roles were reversed, and it were he on the butcher’s table while Matthew Brown took him apart. He thinks fondly that Will would.

When it is all complete, everything neatly packaged away in his freezer, his clothing changed, the rug in the parlor scrubbed of any stains from blood or scotch and left out on the back porch to dry, he goes to Will with a satisfied smile on his lips, leaning in with intent to leave a kiss on soft, plush lips.

Will turns his head at the last moment, not pulling away from the kiss but shifting just enough so that it lands at the corner of his mouth instead.

“Is something wrong, my dear?”

“No,” Will murmurs, placing both of his hands on the taller man’s shoulders, a grounding gesture that is at once meant to be both reassuring and mildly chastening, as it keeps Hannibal from stepping in any closer. He looks up at the older man. “If I’m going to stay here, with you, then we need to establish exactly what this is and what this isn’t.” He steps away from Hannibal then, leaning back against the very same countertop they were eating at hours earlier and lifting himself up gracefully onto it with his hands. “You have me now, but have you _earned_ me yet? Are you worthy of keeping what you’ve won?”

Hannibal finds himself smirking at the impudence, taken as always with Will’s more insolent charms rather than annoyed by them and utterly delighted by the younger man’s newfound self-assurance. He follows with intent, perhaps to box him in with his arms as he had done earlier at that counter as well, but is stopped by a foot coming up to rest against his thigh, halting him in his tracks. Coy as he may seem, there is that curious fire in Will’s eyes again that makes it clear the younger man is quite serious about wanting Hannibal to keep his distance for the moment.

“I won’t be a killer, not for you or for anyone else.” Hannibal looks like he wants to say something to that, probably more of the same spiel he’s given before about unlocking Will’s potential and freeing up his morals, so Will decides to cut him off before he can start. “I’m not saying you have to stop. I’m not even saying that you have to hide it from me like a bad habit or that I won’t…partake. I’m just saying I won’t be actively involved in the process. It’s just not something that I want.” His eyes flash dangerously then as he adds, “No more mind games either or trying to force my hand. If I even suspect that’s happening again, I’m gone. You’ll take me as I am or not at all. Are we clear?”

He is surprised but careful not to show it when Hannibal’s response is to drop to his knees on the floor, gaze worshipful as though offering his devotion at the altar of some implacable god, one hand around Will’s ankle so he can bring his shoed foot to rest against his shoulder, uncaring that it will likely crease and dirty his shirt, then turning his head so he can lay a kiss on the calf of Will’s leg through his trousers.

“If you will also take me as I am, darling, and accept my humble offerings, I would gladly burn the world down and lay its ashes at your feet.”

A thrill shoots up Will’s spine at the words and a smile tugs at the corner of his lips. He feels wanted. He feels owned. He feels _powerful._

*

True to his word, Will never once participates in Hannibal’s kills. Instead he merely watches, and of course, joins him in his meals. Sometimes, in a particularly indulgent mood, he even offers suggestions or helps Hannibal choose a victim.

Though Hannibal still hopes that one day his lover may be tempted enough to join him in the act itself after all, he does not press the issue. He is surprised to learn that, although it is not quite what he had wished for originally, it is immensely gratifying to have an appreciative audience during these grand performances, a patron of sorts for his preferred style of art.

It is not always perfect between them. Theirs is a love of high passions and strong appetite, filled as easily with ardent touches and whispered words of poetry and devotion one day as with slammed doors and shattered vases the next. Their fights are never physical confrontations, however, neither of them daring to cross a line for which there can be only one inevitable conclusion. The intense sessions of lovemaking which occur after they have made up, however, more than make up for this with a scattering of bites, suck marks, and livid bruises littered over both of their bodies afterwards.

Will is angry with Hannibal today, with no chance of lovemaking in their near foreseeable future. He had come home to find a woman tied up in their basement, the contralto for an opera he and Hannibal had attended over two months ago. He is angry because he had said no when Hannibal had suggested her later that same night—poor singing does not constitute a reasonable excuse for murder in Will’s mind. Clearly, Hannibal had disagreed strongly enough to go ahead and grab her anyway.

Hannibal’s attempt at cajoling Will into staying to watch anyway is answered with a resoundingly loud slam of the basement door as Will marches back up the stairs. Hannibal is left to carry on his work alone. Though he has done so many times in the past before they began their relationship, he finds it is not so enjoyable now. Will’s absence makes her warbling, agonized cries less sweet.

He finds his beloved later lounging against the headboard in their bed, tense despite the relaxed pose, tracing his fingers in an unidentifiable pattern over his left wrist. The gesture reminds Hannibal of one of their less heated arguments, in the early months of their shared life together. Despite Hannibal’s distaste for the idea of Will marring any of his perfect unblemished skin, and stronger admonishment that at the very least he should not give himself any identifying marks in such a highly visible place, Will had been insistent on getting a tattoo in that very spot on his wrist—just the letters “M” and “B” done in the same understated style and peculiar scattered pattern as the unknown letters that had been tattooed over Matthew Brown’s chest.

Normally, Will wears a wide leather wristband over it even under long sleeves to prevent it from being seen by anyone in public. Here in the comfort and privacy of their home, his wrist is bare. This is not the first time Hannibal has caught him staring at it, particularly after a quarrel between them.

“Do you find yourself regretting your choices in times of stress?” he asks, genuinely curious and hoping he does not sound bitter as well in the asking.

Will blinks up at him in surprise. “Do I _what?_ No,” he answers, and the relief Hannibal feels at the honesty of it is almost palpable. “That’s not why I...” He snorts out a half-laugh, rubbing his hand over his eyes tiredly. “It’s a reminder,” Will tells him, looking back at him again. “That I don’t have to listen when you try to sweet talk me into something I don’t want.”

Hannibal bends his head forward contritely. “I did not mean to pressure you,” he says.

“Yes, you did,” Will retorts.

“You asked me not to try to change you, with the implicit understanding that you would extend me the same courtesy.”

“I have,” Will says. “That’s why I’m not currently throwing this lamp at your head even though I came up here to be alone,” he adds, gesturing at the table lamp beside him. “Do what you want, just leave me out of it if you’re not going to listen to me.”

Hannibal sighs. “Unfortunately, it was far less satisfactory than I would have hoped without you there,” he admits.

“I know,” is all Will replies.

Hannibal tries again. “We will go with someone you pick next time. I will not disregard your wishes again.”

Will has no answer to that. He merely folds his arms over each other in his lap and looks away. Hannibal accepts that this means he has not been entirely forgiven yet but will be later. He goes out of the room and packs up what he does not wish to use of her remains, intending to dispose of them safely rather than display them since doing so would likely only prolong the amount of time he would have to see that unhappy, thin-lipped expression on his beautiful boy’s face at home.

There must be something he can do to bring himself back into Will’s good graces sooner. It is such a strange thing for him to be concerned about—he already knows that he _will_ be forgiven, yet he finds himself wanting to make up for having displeased his partner in the first place nevertheless. He tries to think of what he could do, perhaps a gift he could bring home that will put a smile back on those soft lips.

He laughs once at the thought that immediately enters his head, and then pauses, humming consideringly.

*

_“Wake up, darling. I have a surprise for you.”_

“Another one?” Will groans sleepily, blinking as the light of the lamp floods the room. He glances first over at the darkened window and then at the clock beside their bed. It has only been dark out for maybe an hour. His clothes are rumpled from him having fallen asleep in them where he lay. “Not like the one in the basement earlier?”

“A better one,” Hannibal answers, smirking. “One you will actually like.”

Will opens his mouth to retort that Hannibal can’t just buy him off with presents whenever he’s mad at him, but he is interrupted by a faint snuffling sound, followed by a soft whine. “What...”

Hannibal turns and reaches into the basket sitting on the bedspread behind him, then turns back to Will, holding out in his arms a black-and-white lab mix that begins to wag his tail excitedly at the attention being given.

“Oh, you manipulative _bastard,”_ Will says as Hannibal hands the puppy to him. The dog whuffs, thinking Will is talking to him, and Will cannot help either the smile or the soft laughter that breaks free when the dog squirms happily and starts licking his chin. _Damn it._

Hannibal sits there looking all too smug and proud of himself. Just to get back at him, Will says, “This is an awfully dangerous habit to pick up, Doctor Lecter. Buying a puppy every time I’m pissed at you only guarantees we’ll end up with more dogs than what I had back in the States.”

Hannibal blinks once in mild surprise. “I was not aware I was establishing such an expectation with the purchase of a single pet.”

Will raises an eyebrow at him and smirks. “How else are you going to top this next time?” he asks, scratching the puppy behind one ear when he yips at him. “Seems to me you just set the bar pretty high for yourself.”

Hannibal sighs resignedly. “You are right. I have only myself to blame. I suppose I shall have to view this as an encouraging reminder to anger you less often, my dear.”

“Hmm, I suppose you shall,” Will says and leans in to kiss him. The puppy seems to believe it should take part as well and leaves an affectionate lick right under Hannibal’s chin.

Hannibal makes a mildly disgruntled sound as he pulls back, though his eyes crinkle with amusement. “We shall have to train you out of that, my friend,” he says, laying a finger over the puppy’s muzzle, which the little one immediately tries to nip playfully.

Will nods solemnly in agreement, privately thinking that he will do everything he can to encourage the exact opposite. It will be all too amusing as the puppy grows up into a large fully grown dog to watch him try to jump up and lick the older man’s face. He can just picture it already.

“What will you name him?” Hannibal asks, seemingly unaware of the awful fate Will has planned for him.

Will hums thoughtfully. “I think...Samuel. You look like a Samuel, don’t you, boy?” Samuel barks at him in agreement.

Hannibal’s smile widens, watching Will’s bond with the little creature deepen so quickly with more pleasure even than he had expected. “Come downstairs with me. I’ll show you his bed and his toys.”

Will gives an exaggerated gasp. “You hear that?” he asks the pup. “Look who’s spoiling you rotten already!”

Hannibal chuckles and stands, offering his hand to help Will up. The younger man takes it and doesn’t let go after he rises. Together they walk out of the bedroom and down the stairs, hand in hand. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, do you have a favorite ending or one that you consider to be more fitting? (And no, the two don't have to be the same or mutually exclusive.) I cried and squealed for joy at both in roughly equal measure, so I honestly can't give much of an opinion there, but I'd love to hear from you guys about it! ^_^


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